


Darling, It's Raining Fire

by LadyFeb29



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Cannibalism, Multi, Nor any other time if you were wondering, Slow Burn, Sock does not eat Jonathan at this time, Virus-induced Apocalypse, also based a little bit on the novel The Road, based on penn-dragon's Tumblr post, post-apocalypse au, some mild violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-05-28 23:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 77,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6349849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeb29/pseuds/LadyFeb29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has ended. This is what Jonathan Combs realizes as he shovels brownie mix down his parched throat in the middle of a rotting department store.</p>
<p>But the world can be reborn. And there are many ways to do that. This is what Napoleon Sowachowski realizes as he hunts his (admittedly handsome) prey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warnings

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a post by penn-dragon on Tumblr. 
> 
> Post-Apocalypse Sockathan. What's not to love?

Most people, when you asked them, could tell you exactly where they had been when they first heard of the Ramot Virus. They’d say something like, “I was in the break room at the office, and everyone’s eyes were glued to the TV,” or “I came home from school one day and both of my parents were sitting in the dining room crying,” or “My little brother caught it, and two days later everyone but me was dead.”

Jonathan Combs did not remember where or when he first caught wind of the Virus. Knowledge of the end of the world came, for him, rather slowly--like the rainwater that used to drip into his bedroom closet. One moment, he became aware of a drip-dripping sound, and the next thing he knew his favorite pair of shoes were sitting in a puddle half an inch deep.

The Virus might have come from anywhere. Best guesses placed its origins in Eastern Europe, although evidence to the contrary also existed. How it had traveled around the world so quickly--only five months from patient zero to worldwide infection--remained a mystery. Perhaps the Virus was airborne. Maybe it resided in contaminated water, maybe it was transferred through body fluids, maybe it traveled from pets to humans. Scientists might have worked long and hard tracking Virus development and comparing rates of infection across the globe, if they had gotten the chance. As it was, by Month Ten of Infection, every medical researcher of note was either buried under six feet of dirt or rotting at their desks, abandoned in their office chairs by panicking secretaries and grad students.

Jonathan’s father had contracted the Virus in Month Three, in Sacramento. He’d been a truck driver, delivering canned goods for the most part. And in California, he had died before Jonathan and his mother had even gotten a notification that he was ill at all. His body was never transported home. They burned it at the hospital. Somehow, the lack of closure, of physical evidence of the Virus, made it less real for Jonathan.

He hadn’t known the world was ending. Sure, there might be a new and rampant disease decimating the population of every city it came across, but it wasn’t the apocalypse. Doomsday, for Jonathan Combs, was still a glimmer in the distant future.

As a matter of fact, Jonathan didn’t realize that the world had ended until he was standing in the middle of the ruins of a department store, debating whether it was worth the risk to try eating the fancy brownie mix powder dry.

He had been scrutinizing the ingredient list, wondering how much he could hock down without water, when it hit him. The breeze from outside was blowing in from the hole broken in the glass doors. Part of the ceiling--over what had once been the appliances section--had given way due to water damage. The tiles were peeling up at the corners if they weren’t broken in half. None of the lights were on. Even the backup generator for this mall had given out, then.

Jonathan stared forward into the shadowy store for ten minutes before he looked back down to the brownie mix. The tan powder hadn’t moved an inch. He toyed with the ribbon covering the neck of the jar. It was bright red, striped with white--maybe it had been sold as a Christmas present, part of a gift basket that had long been demolished for the chocolates it no doubt had held. The last Christmas Jonathan had celebrated was--shit, when was it? Sometime last year. Probably in Month Four or so. His dad had been dead by that point; he remembered his mother crying over the stockings and wiping her nose with the decorative napkins.

His father was dead. He couldn’t remember a funeral. No ashes. There might have been a sympathy card from the trucking company, but he wasn’t sure.

Jonathan’s mother hadn’t taken the news well. She’d always been an overly nervous woman, and the constant feed of death tolls didn’t help. Every night at the dinner table, she would recite the numbers: “Jonathan, 500,000 people died in China today. 500,000 in one day. Can you believe it?” After a week of food flavored with far too much salt, Jonathan had decided to start eating in his room. Maybe that was insensitive, but he could only take so much.

Month Nine had been the worst for them. That was the month their landlord had evicted them, babbling about moving to the north where the Virus couldn’t find him. By that point, staying in their house had really been a formality, their excuse being that Jonathan had to go to school. In the middle of Month Nine, that went out the window--one teacher had caught the Virus, and only a few days later every member of the faculty was infected. Four days later they were dead.

Jonathan thought about the unfinished math homework he had stuffed into his locker, that last day before the school system collapsed. He had planned to finish it the next morning, before class. If he turned in another assignment late, he would have to take a note home to his mom, and she didn’t need the added stress. Judging by the state of the department store he now stood in, it was probably a damp pile of wood pulp sitting in the rusted-out bottom of a row of lockers. Just another fatality of the apocalypse.

Maybe someday, he thought, he should go back to his school. Maybe the building would still be standing, not torn apart by desperate survivors searching for supplies. Maybe they hadn’t found the science teacher’s stash of Twinkies, the ones he kept locked up in his bottom right desk drawer. Maybe Jonathan could eat them, feel full for once.

For now, though, brownie mix would have to do. He twisted the lid of the jar off and reeled back at the overpowering and distinctive smell of peppermint. Yep, definitely a Christmas product. Licking his chapped lips, he dipped a finger into the powder and stuck it into his mouth. The dry mix stuck to the parched walls of his cheeks, grit into his teeth as he tried to work up enough saliva to swallow.

He coughed when it had finally gone down, adhering to the sides of his esophagus. One scoop down, 500 more to go. Sighing and squatting down on the ruined linoleum, he rasped out into the darkness:

“This is gonna suck.”

\------

A few--what had it been, days? Weeks?--before his brownie-mix induced crisis, Jonathan had chanced to meet one of his old classmates on an old gravel road, not far from the suburbs. The last time he’d seen anyone from school, the business district had been burning behind his back as his mother and he escaped down the only highway leading out of town that wasn’t choked by traffic or corpses. And the first thing he had said, after the initial shocks of recognition and relief wore off, was to admit that he couldn’t remember her name.

She smiled, a little too sympathetically for Jonathan’s taste. “Lil. We had algebra together, remember? Ms. Tiver’s class?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.” He sat down hard on the ground. “Sorry, my knee’s been bothering me lately. Mind if I sit?”

Lil raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘You’re already sitting, dumbass’, but then nodded and carefully settled down across from Jonathan. “So what have you been up to lately?”

Jonathan shrugged, pulling out his water bottle (one liter, made out of the cheapest plastic imaginable; but serviceable). “Oh, you know. Trying to find food. Avoiding other people. Until now.”

Lil laughed, without mirth. “Sorry I broke your streak. And sorry if I freaked you out trying to approach you.” Jonathan scowled, remembering the 12-inch machete Lil had just re-sheathed, after pointing the business end in his face. “You’re pretty recognizable from a distance, what with the hair.” She motioned towards Jonathan’s blond hair and brunet undercut. “How have you been managing that, by the way? You find some bleach somewhere?”

Jonathan popped his water bottle closed and stuffed it back into his oversized coat pocket. “Yeah, something like that. I think the last time I redid it was...I don’t know. A while ago.” Lil made a sound of understanding, then turned her attention to the horizon behind Jonathan. Perhaps, vaguely, it occurred to him that Lil sat across and not next to him for a reason--to keep watch in all directions.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and Lil looked back at his face. “So, uh. What have you been doing? What’re you doing around these parts?”

Lil laughed again, this time with a bit more sincerity. “Actually, I’m looking for my cat. Or, rather, my cat’s collar. I mean, if Cleo’s not still alive somewhere.”

“Cleo?”

“That’s my cat’s name. She’s a Sphinx--you know, one of those hairless cats? So we named her after Cleopatra. Because we’re original.” Now her smile was more genuine, and Jonathan couldn’t help but raise one side of his mouth in amusement.

“That’s cool. Our landlord never let us have pets in the house. Not even fish, can you believe it? He said he didn’t like the smell of animals.” Jonathan rolled his eyes dramatically and was rewarded with a giggle from Lil. After she quieted down, he asked, “So are you heading back to town, then? To see if Cleo’s still in your house.”

Lil suddenly grew quiet. She bit her lip and scuffed the toe of her shoe in the loose dirt of the gravel road they sat on. “Well..” She started, then reconsidered her words. Finally, she sighed. “I was going to, but I’m gonna have to take a different route than what I wanted, originally. You know West Boulevard that runs right into the suburbs?” Jonathan nodded. “I was going to take that, but...well. Intervening circumstances.”

“Intervening circumstances?” Jonathan physically felt the blood rush out of his cheeks. “Ramot Virus?” Even though the Virus had slowed down considerably--what with most of its hosts being dead or spread out over several hundred miles--it still wasn’t uncommon to run across a corpse that had the telltale bruises and boils, laying in the middle of the road where the person had dropped dead. Usually Jonathan took a mile detour around them, which was a pain in the ass. But worth it, if it meant not getting sick.

Lil scoffed. “No, not Ramot. I haven’t seen a Ramot body for weeks, to be honest with you.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. Jonathan leaned forward, listening intently. “There are Demons along West Boulevard. I heard it from a friend I have out here.”

Jonathan recoiled, instinctively whipping his head around to look behind him. Nothing. But really, what had he expected? Demons were smarter than that.

From what Jonathan could remember, it had been about two years since the big cities started to crumble and the government shut down for good. At first, everything had been all right; people escaping the cities formed loose groups that shared food and blankets and water--he and his mom had joined one of those. But about seven months after--no, not even seven; the cracks in the system were starting to show in just four--the food started to run out. People began to find out what they had feared all along, and what the government had tried to cover up: the Ramot Virus affected other animals besides humans, besides even animals that lived close to humans. Deer, rabbits, wolves--they were all dying, and in massive numbers. Meat wasn’t going to be a viable option; seeds for planting crops were scarce. There wasn’t enough food to go around. People were going to starve.

  
It was probably at this point that most people came to the realization that the world was ending. And if the world was ending, something else would move in to replace it. And some people, with more guts and cunning than others, took the opportunity to be the ones who got to control that replacement.

Enter the Demons.

Jonathan had only heard vague rumors from the few travelers he met on the road, but it was enough to scare the shit out of him. People, living in a huge commune, all agreeing to treat some people as cattle--as meat. And eating them. He supposed it made sense, in theory, that the next-best source of meat humans were bound to get, after all the other animals died off, was other humans. But in practice, it was so much more terrifying--he’d heard from one old man that the Demons sent out scouts to recruit people, convincing them to join in the feast, and then put them in pens once they got back to the commune.

Demons, in short, were a shifty bunch with a shiftier moral code. A kind of glorified gang that glutted itself on the meat of their members. Honestly, it was enough to give you nightmares.

“They’re on West? That’s not too far from here, is it?” Jonathan felt panic rising to replace the blood in his face.

Lil nodded. “Yeah, it’s pretty close. Less than five miles. That’s well within their scouting range.” She looked up sheepishly. “Which is why I was so careful coming up to meet you. Sorry, again, if the machete scared you.”

“No, it’s fine. I understand why, now.” Jonathan lowered his head to rest on one of his knees. “Shit. What am I gonna do? I didn’t know they were so close.”

Lil reached out and patted Jonathan’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Wouldn’t suggest going with me, though. I’m gonna take the long, long way around.” She swept her hand out in a wide arch. “Miles north of Lake Erikson, even. Then I’m coming back south and coming in from the northeast, if it’s open.”

  
Jonathan grimaced. “Yeah, don’t think I could make that. Not with this fucker,” he said, patting his offending knee. “I think I twisted it or something. Maybe hyperextended it. Whatever.” He shrugged, trying to cover his desperation to leave with nonchalance.

“Yeah, maybe. Take it easy for a couple days, that’s what I’d do.” Lil reached behind her into her backpack and pulled out a well-worn map. She spread it out in the dirt between them. “Now, the Demons are here,” she said, tracing a finger along West Boulevard. “And their scouting radius is probably ten, twenty miles, at most.” Her finger drew a wide circle out from West. “So, I would suggest that you start heading South.” She dragged her finger down, along a highway. “Just for a while, mind you. Until your knee gets better. It’s smooth sailing down there, provided that...You know. Intervening circumstances don’t arise.”

He nodded, turning the map a little to take note of the highway number Lil was pointing to. “Thanks. I’ll probably do that, then.” Looking up to the sky, he sighed. “It’s getting kind of late. Do you want to camp here and get going in the morning?”

Mimicking Jonathan’s motions, Lil nodded. “Yeah. I’ll head out pretty early though, so don’t expect to see me for breakfast or anything.” She reached down and carefully folded her map, brushing away dust as she went.

When it got dark, Lil and Jonathan didn’t speak. They made no fire. Jonathan drank some more water, but neither ate anything. He thought about whispering a ‘good night’ as they bedded down, but decided against it. It would probably just make things weird.

In the morning, Jonathan awoke to an empty camp and an empty road. Lil must have left before dawn, to get a head start on her day’s walk. After packing up his blanket and taking another sip of water, Jonathan turned in the direction Lil had indicated on her map. South. Just for a while.

His stomach made an unattractive gurgling sound. Mentally, he edited his plan. South, find some food. Avoid Demons at all costs.

\------

A few--what had it been, days? Weeks?--after meeting Lil, and only a few hours after his brownie-mix induced crisis, Jonathan met Sock.


	2. Pigs to Slaughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sock recalls things better than Jonathan. Not that it's terribly hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! Updates might be a little irregular because I go back to school Monday, but I'll do my best.

Sock remembered exactly when he’d first heard about the Ramot Virus.

One Sunday morning, about seven, he’d woken up to his mother shaking his shoulder frantically. She rushed him through getting dressed, all without speaking a word. While he tied his shoes, still groggy with sleep, she pulled two suitcases out from under his bed, disregarding the dust and dirty clothes that came with them. It was only when she began shoveling Sock’s clothes into one and blankets into another that he asked what was wrong.

“Oh, we’re going to visit your Uncle Robert. You remember him, right? He lives way out in the country.” One of the drawers fell out of Sock’s dresser as his mother pulled it out. She didn’t even wince when it hit the floor.

“Why? We haven’t seen him in years.” Sock yawned, sitting back onto his bed. Immediately, his mother shot up and plucked the sheet from under Sock’s butt, throwing him back onto the floor. 

“Just to visit. It might be for a while, though.” She didn’t sound remotely convinced of her own lie, and neither was Sock. He deliberately dragged his feet while his parents rushed around the house, stuffing their belongings into boxes and hissing admonitions at each other. 

Sock wasn’t entirely alarmed until he realized that his father was packing their photo albums into his school backpack, hastily dumping Sock’s pencils and notebooks onto the carpet. His mother was in the kitchen, taking dusty cans off the shelves, things they hadn’t so much as looked at since they bought them. Suddenly, Sock felt--more than realized--that he would never see his childhood home again. 

“Dad?” He approached his father cautiously. “Why are we leaving, really?”

His father paused, photo album hanging in the air between the bookshelf and backpack, dead weight in his hand. Finally, he heaved a sigh and slipped it into Sock’s purple bag. “Do you remember I was looking up something on the computer last night?” Sock nodded. “There’s a Virus. It’s killing a lot of people. I mean, a lot of people.” He finally turned to face Sock fully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The newest reported case is in Neilson.”

“Neilson?” His father nodded, frowning. “That’s still kinda far away, isn’t it? I mean, it takes like an hour to get there.”

Sock’s father let go of his shoulder and zipped the backpack closed, handing it off to Sock. “It’s still too close. We have to leave.”

The tone in his voice left no room for argument--not that Sock would have tried, anyway. Arguments with his father tended to become physical. There was that one time Sock had ended up in the hospital with a broken wrist, and he rolled the healed joint as he helped his parents pack suitcases and boxes and duffel bags into the back of their ancient little car. He slumped sullenly in the backseat, his right shoulder wedged against the door and his left pushed into a suitcase wheel. Looking down the quiet and deserted street, he wondered if his parents weren’t making a mountain out a molehill.

They hadn’t made it halfway to his Uncle’s farm when they ran into the first Ramot victim, hobbling on the side of the road. At first, his father had slowed down, wondering if the person was hurt, whether they should help. Sock was about to ask where they were going to fit another person in and amongst all of their belongings when his mother started screaming. Something about boils, about how the man was infected, to leave, we have to leave now!

Between the time he jerked backwards from their sudden acceleration and the moment he settled back forward, Sock got a good look at the man, scenery blurred by speed. His face was covered with yellow and brown boils, bruises dotting the skin between. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull, and Sock realized that he was limping because the flesh on his right foot had started to rot away, bone showing through tatters of muscles and tendons and skin. He made no motion towards the Sowachowski family car--didn’t reach out for their retreating bumper, didn’t call for help, didn’t even look up. 

It was at this time, as he strained to watch the shrinking and stumbling figure out the rear windshield, that Sock knew for certain that the world was going to end; that it was already ending. 

And that he was going to survive, no matter what it took.

\------

Normally, Sock wouldn’t be travelling out this far from the base, but he had wanted to try something different; something he learned from another scout named Mara. She’d told him about it when they were on garbage duty, cleaning out the debris from the kitchens. 

“I get them to think that I’m recruiting them,” she said, tossing some trash out into the burning pit. “Actually, you know, Meph has kept a few of the ones I brought back. He puts them through some kinda test, I think. But most of the time, they go straight into the butcher line.”

Sock handed over a bucket of bones--mostly hands and feet--and asked, as Mara dumped it down into the pit, “How is it easier? Don’t they give you a hard time once they find out what’ll actually happen to them?”

Mara shrugged, handing the bucket back to Sock. “Don’t usually see them after I bring ‘em back. Most of the time I hang out for a couple days and then head back out.” Sock scooped up another bucketful of bones from the floor of the butchering room, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He’d never get used to the stench of stale blood, not as long as he lived. Fresh blood was always better. “And it’s easier because one, you don’t have to worry about dragging bodies around, and two, the body won’t rot on the way,” She wiped one of her hands on the back of her pants and overturned the bucket with the other. “In other words, you can go out farther because the prey walks itself back to base.”

This, of course, was one of Sock’s basic problems. Killing people was nothing difficult--for his size, he was surprisingly strong--but dragging the bodies back slowed him down. The last time he went out, the only prey he was able to find was a slightly obese man, easily a foot taller than himself. The guy had barely fit into the tarp. Hauling his fat ass back to base had almost thrown out Sock’s back, and it was at that point that Mephistopheles had gently suggested finding an alternative mode of operation.

Which was how he had found himself tracking down a small, blonde dot that was limping along at a steady pace almost a mile and a half away. Sock had seen him closer only once; which was how he knew his quarry was male. At least, he assumed male, what with that jawline and the brown sideburns starting to grow in, and the lean body he knew was under that coat and okay no. Nope. Not going down that road. This guy was food, not eye candy. 

Sock knew, on some instinctual level, that part of the reason Mephistopheles had taken him under his wing was because he was gay. That fact had only come to light after Sock was pressured to join the breeding program, and he had to give an excuse not to rape some poor girl who was going to be butchered if she couldn’t produce more stock. He’d found that ignoring the breeding programs was for the best. Even Mephistopheles looked at the leaders of that project with some disdain; occasionally even made moves to hinder their plans. It made Sock feel better, somehow. Like the group he had joined wasn’t completely morally bankrupt; only kind of morally bankrupt. 

The fact that Mephistopheles was on his side was the only reason Sock had gotten away with revealing his sexuality; he knew that. Sure, some of the bigger guys, the ones that came from way out in the sticks, still called him a twink. But the one super-religious lady who had dubbed him a faggot had mysteriously disappeared only days after the incident. Mephistopheles had taken Sock aside and assured him that, should anyone harass him for anything whatsoever, they would meet a similar fate. 

He wasn’t sure if Mephistopheles viewed him as a son, as an apprentice, or a ward. Often, he’d behave as if it was all three at the same time. Sock certainly wasn’t complaining. Mephistopheles was the only person he really liked on-base, although he knew that a friendly relationship between them wouldn’t preclude his own demise if he stepped too far out of line. A story that Mephistopheles often enjoyed telling new recruits--probably part of the test Mara had talked about, actually--was that he’d eaten his own aunt and (direct quote) “Chewing her ass up was like gnawing on shoe leather.”

Taking another peek through his binoculars--a cheap pair he’d found in someone’s garage--Sock wondered what this guy’s ass would taste like. 

Immediately, he clonked himself in the head with the binoculars. Bad Sock. Just because he hadn't seen an attractive man for, what, a year? Didn’t mean he had to start drooling over the first one he saw. Stop that. 

\------

During the three months Sock and his parents spent on his uncle’s farm, Sock had found plenty of opportunities to satisfy his killing curiosity.

Early in his childhood, according to his mother, Sock would steal butter knives from the cutlery drawer and try to hunt rabbits in the backyard. She’d thought it was cute, until the day when he actually caught one and began repeatedly stabbing it in the head. At that point, she’d probably realized that something was desperately wrong with her son, and she methodically started throwing out sharp utensils--scissors, knives, box cutters. 

It hadn’t stopped Sock from victimizing the slugs in the flowerbeds, though. True, they were poor substitutes for larger animals--the things he really wanted to cut apart. But they had guts, and he could cut them apart using sticks, not all of which his mother could snatch away from him before he started doing damage. He recalled that he tried eating a slug once, but it had tasted so bitter that he’d thrown up on the spot. It wasn’t a good day when his mother found the remains of that experiment. 

But on the farm, Sock’s parents were busy panicking over the end of the world. And Sock, left to his own devices, began exploring the pig pens. He’d always thought pigs were kind of ugly, but smelling them forced his opinion of them even lower. The only remotely okay ones were the newborns, the ones that still hadn’t had their ears and tails docked. He enjoyed those ones the most because they were absolutely vicious. Sometimes, he’d try to guess which piglet was going to gnaw off which ear of its siblings first. Over the course of those three months, he became rather good at it. 

It was a simple oversight, on the part of Sock’s mother, that led to Sock finding a kitchen knife. Not a butter knife, like he’d used as a child. An honest-to-god knife, six inches long and sharp as hell. He found it in the kitchen, deep in the recesses of a bottom drawer, and smuggled it up to his room by hiding it under his shirt. 

At first, he’d tried to rationalize his decision to take the knife: he needed to protect himself if the world was ending. Who knew what might be out in the woods around the farm? What if some serial killer tried to kidnap him while he was exploring the yard? But eventually, he gave up, mostly because his parents never found out. If, before the beginning of the apocalypse, his parents had been aloof, now they were downright neglectful. Days could go by when they wouldn’t even talk to him. He counted once: four straight days of silence.

Sometime before the end of the second month, Sock smuggled one of the piglets out into the woods--the runt of the litter; he figured Uncle Robert wouldn’t mind. He played with it for a while, poking it with a stick and making it run around after leaves. It was almost cute.

He pulled the knife out from his hoodie pocket. Not cute enough. 

Killing that pig was ecstasy. Sock could barely hear its squeals of pain as he sunk the blade down into its throat. Blood spilled out over his hands; he felt it spray up into his face. That was what he loved most about killing, he found: the blood. It was warm, it pulsed up out of the body and over his fingers. It was like feeling a living thing’s heart, its life. Fresh blood, the blood of killing, was hot and heavy and quick and real.

After his second pig, Sock realized that he should probably bury the evidence of his hobby, lest Uncle Robert come waltzing through the woods and stumble upon their corpses. One night, under a full moon, Sock quietly crept out of the farmhouse and plucked a small shovel from the wall of the garage. A few yards away from his killing site, he dug a small hole and covered two tiny bodies with dirt. He stared at the grave for a moment, wondering if it was really appropriate for the murderer of the victims to say parting words. In the end, he’d given the mound of soil one last pat with the shovel, mumbled “Sorry”, and ran back to the house. 

\------

This was still an issue for him, actually. Was it right to talk to someone you kind of, sort of intended to murder? And worse yet, eat? Mara didn’t seem to have any qualms about it; but then again, she was one of the best liars Sock had ever known, even better than Mephistopheles. 

Sock squinted at his quarry, now sitting a ways down a gravel road, talking to a girl with black hair. Should he back off? He’d only planned on conning one person; two might be a handful. Creeping closer to the place where they sat, Sock lay flat on his stomach in some tall grass between the trees, just a few yards from the ditch. He heard the girl say something about Demons--Demons on West Boulevard. His prey whipped his head around, looking straight back towards Sock’s hiding place. Sock felt his heart sink down into the dirt. Shit. He had blue eyes. And an undercut, how cute was that?

No, Sock. Focus. 

He backed away from the pair as soon as they began making travel plans--separate travel plans, he was happy to note. So his quarry would be alone, after all. And away from this girl, who seemed to be looking in Sock’s general direction too often to be coincidence. 

\------

The next morning, after the guy broke camp, Sock started following at a shorter distance, sure that the kid would notice the presence behind him.

He didn’t. It was annoying the shit out of Sock. How clueless was this guy? His friend had seemed perceptive. Why was he staring at a jar of brownie mix? Why didn’t he just look behind him and see Sock walking a half-mile away? It was ridiculous! 

It wasn’t until exactly four days, eighteen hours, and thirty-six minutes after Sock began following his prey south, that Sock worked up the guts to approach the guy first.

In hindsight, it could’ve gone better.


	3. Knives and Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan and Sock meet for the first time. It could have gone better.

As a matter of fact, Jonathan had been aware of someone walking behind him ever since he’d left the department store. We really shouldn’t be surprised; this sort of thing happens all the time. A person walking through dense forest isn’t on the lookout for bears until they know that there is the possibility of bears, and after that they begin seeing the traces of bears everywhere. Likewise, Jonathan had been looking out for Demons ever since Lil had told him they were on West, but the brownie mix still clinging to the inside of his throat reminded him that the world had ended. And he was alone. And there was someone following him.

Jonathan was trying, as well as he could, to walk faster down the highway, eyes constantly looking for a place where he could break off from the road, hide in some trees maybe. Unfortunately, no such place was anywhere near him. All the trees were far off the beaten path, windbreaks for defunct farms and country houses. 

It was around this point that Sock lost all patience. He was trying to approach this guy to become ‘friends’; why wouldn’t he at least turn around and acknowledge that someone was there? Even a scream would be decent at this point. 

Near a bend in the road, where the pavement had started to break up into large chunks of jagged asphalt, Sock finally made his move. Slowly, he began jogging, trying to catch up to his prey. The sound of his boots slapping against the highway filled his ears as he tried to rehearse an opening line: “Hi, I’m Sock, just noticed you wandering around out here, do you wanna be friends or something?”

Unfortunately, it was this point that Jonathan finally turned around to peek at his pursuer; just to get an idea of how fast he would have to run in order to escape. All he saw, drawing closer, was a purple and brown speck that he knew, rather than guessed, to be a Demon. 

Like any sane person facing down a creature from Hell, Jonathan ran. 

Like any hunter worth his salt, Sock started sprinting to catch up.

Maybe it would have stayed this way, one chasing after the other, until one of them tired out and called a truce. Maybe, by speaking at a safe distance, they would have come to an understanding--Jonathan, terrified out of his wits, and Sock, lying through his teeth. Maybe our story would have turned out much differently.

But Jonathan was running on a strained knee. Every other step was agony, and, although human beings have endured much worse in the struggle to avoid death, Jonathan was not a grizzled war hero or a brave upstanding citizen; no, he was a scrawny teenager who had just eaten too much brownie mix in a rotting department store. It wasn’t too long before Sock caught up to him. 

Hearing the footsteps behind him coming rapidly closer, Jonathan spun around, and, due to the aforementioned knee and loose asphalt, promptly fell onto his ass. So promptly, in fact, that Sock couldn’t stop in time and tripped over him, sprawling out onto his lap. If he’d had any time to think before Jonathan started hitting him, Sock might have blushed and cursed his luck, driving him into such an awkward situation. As it was, before he’d even gotten his hands under his torso and tried to haul himself off the ground, Jonathan was trying to punch him in the face.

“Hey!” Sock shouted, rolling over to free up his hands. He managed to block Jonathan’s next punch, which, he noticed, was weak as shit. Not much of a fighter, then. Good for Sock; bad for his prey.

He smirked, letting Jonathan situate himself above Sock, letting him think that this fight might be easy. It was Sock’s favorite part of hunting after all: raising hope of survival only to send it crashing down into the dust.

Sock knew, from his time of observation, that something was wrong with his prey’s knee; his left one, to be exact. From what he could tell, it was probably just twisted or strained. Something minor that could easily be fixed by a medical professional, or several days of rest. This kid had obviously had neither of those at his disposal, and Sock planned to take advantage of that fully. 

As soon as he worked his leg free from Jonathan’s poor attempt at a pin, Sock brought the back of his foot down hard on the back of the blonde’s knee. 

The effect was immediate. Jonathan’s shout of pain resounded in Sock’s ear as he brought his opposite knee up into Jonathan’s gut, pushing him up and off. In seconds, Sock was back up onto his feet, reaching to take his knife out of its sheath, preparing his arm to swing the blade down into the throat and--

Wait. 

He was supposed to be making friends, right? Knives weren’t for friends.

Carefully, he slipped his knife back into the sheath. “Are you all right?” He asked, feeling just a little dumb. Making friends was harder than he remembered; probably had something to do with that whole apocalypse thing. 

Jonathan wheezed, “Holy shit, man. Your knees are fucking sharp.” Holding his stomach, he struggled up off his back. 

“Sorry, guess I panicked.” Sock offered his hand to the boy, who looked at it accusingly. He didn’t take it.

“You panicked? You’re not the one who was suddenly being chased down by…” He gestured vaguely at Sock. “...You.” 

“Oh, I’ll take that as a compliment!” Sock folded his arms across his chest. Maybe by being funny he could put this guy at ease. 

“Please don’t.” The blonde struggled to his feet alone, wincing as he put weight onto his knee. 

Sock huffed in annoyance. “Well, it’s not my fault you’re not great at fighting. Don’t you have a weapon? Even like, a stick? Something?”

Jonathan scowled, about to chew the kid out--what did he know? But stopped short. Jonathan could be hiding a sword down his pants and this guy would probably still be able to kick his ass. That kick had been anything but accidental. It hadn’t even been a lucky hit. Something about the way the kid carried himself, the way he had casually reached back to that sheath on his hip, told Jonathan that he was dealing with someone just short of a professional killer.

Sock patted the knife at his side. “You should get a knife! They’re super useful and versatile, you can use them to defend yourself and skin things and mark trees if you get lost and...I know, I’m rambling, stop looking at me like that!” 

Jonathan started backing away. Obviously, this guy was a little less than perfect in the head, and he’d rather be farther away from him than nearer. “Look, thanks for the advice. Stop following me, I don’t have any food. And if you’re a Demon,” the way the kid stiffened up confirmed Jonathan’s suspicions, “you just stay the fuck away from me.” With that, he turned to go. 

“Uh. Wait!” Jonathan turned his head. “I, um. I wanna be friends. My name’s Sock. What’s yours?” 

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, skeptic and on guard--after all, his knee was still smarting from that kick. Probably better not to give this guy any personal information. He started walking away.

“Hey!” He heard footsteps catching up to him, and wasn’t surprised when the kid’s--what did he say his name was, Sock?--popped up on his right. “Has anyone told you that you’re really rude?”

“Maybe.” Jonathan kept the frown on his face, but started formulating a plan. He couldn’t fight this kid, it would probably be fatal. But if he just kept on insulting him, maybe he’d get tired of it and leave on his own. 

“Well, you are. What’s your name?”

“Why do you wanna know the name of a guy who’s rude?”

“Because you’re the most interesting guy I’ve seen in a while! Actually, the first guy I’ve seen in…” Sock mocked counting on his fingers. “Maybe two weeks? And the last person was dead.”

“Oh, you killed him?”

Sock growled a bit. “No. Ramot Virus.”

“Ah.” Jonathan was prepared to let the subject drop, but the kid kept pace with him (not that this was difficult). Something of the old world crept up his throat. He couldn’t stand silence when there was supposed to be conversation. Jonathan, you see, was one of those people who made small talk, however awkward and repetitive, to fill the space between himself and other people. He found it easier to keep others preoccupied with the weather, and away from himself. 

So, words came from his mouth unbidden. “What do you do with Ramot Virus, anyway? I just try to avoid the bodies, when I can.” Smooth. Maybe talking about Ramot--what with its boils and blotches and deadly tendencies--would send the kid away.

No such luck. “You know, I’ve kinda gotten used to it. I mean, I’m not scared of them anymore. So whenever I see a body, I’m just like ‘Oh, another one bit the dust’, and just walk around them. Not a long ways, though. I don’t think it’s that potent after the host has died. What do you think?”

“Uh…” Shit, not prepared for in-depth conversation. “I guess I haven’t thought about it that much. They never did find out how Ramot transferred, did they?”

“Nah,” Sock shook his head, the flaps of his hat hitting his cheeks. “It was potent while it lasted. I remember when countries were falling right and left, and up and down, and…” Jonathan eased his scowl, watching the guy’s hands as he talked. It had been a while since he’d met someone who talked with their hands. Right now, the kid’s arms were flailing as he recalled the Fall of Nations.

Ramot’s Patient Zero had been in Moldova, although it was unknown whether or not the Virus originated from that area of Europe. It was common knowledge to every survivor that it had gone global by the Fifth Month. Despite their best quarantine efforts, cases in New Zealand and Australia had emerged. On steady course, Ramot had taken the world’s population by storm. The governments of the world couldn’t handle the pressure. People were dying by the thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands, every day. The dead couldn’t be buried fast enough, infrastructure started to waver. Usually, half the population of a country would die before the water stopped running through the pipes; three quarters and the electricity went out. Backup generators only went so far. And suddenly, within weeks of reaching Epidemic status, a country would have no choice but to let their citizens go: “Run,” they seemed to say as they dissolved. “Run and save yourselves. We can’t help you now.” 

“My dad died of Ramot.” Shit, why did he say that? Now this kid would be interested in his life, which was not what he wanted.

“Really?” Sock faltered. How did one reply appropriately to death again? It wasn’t with an ‘Oh well’, or a ‘Good for them’, which were both standard with Demons. 

“Yeah, I don’t really remember much of it though.” Jonathan took the nearest out he could see, trying to put the topic to rest.

“I bet, what with the world ending and all.” Pulling his hat down, Sock tried not to think about his mother dying, and failed. He didn’t cry anymore when he remembered it--a small blessing now; the last thing he needed in this conversation were waterworks--but it still hurt. He wasn’t sure if would ever stop hurting. 

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Maybe this is an awkward thing to bring up, but do you plan on eating me anytime soon?”

Sock’s hand involuntarily twitched for the handle of his knife. How to navigate this topic? ‘I’m planning to trick you so I can eat you at a later time’? No. ‘Only if you ask me to’? Too risky, what if he didn’t like dark humor? 

He went with the simplest answer, the one that was mostly true. “No.”

“Why? You’re a Demon. And don’t try to argue that,” he added hastily. “I already know.”

Sock took a deep breath. Lying. How did Mara make it look so easy? He’d barely even uttered any exact falsehoods and he already felt like throwing up. “I’m not out here to kill anyone.”

“Are you trying to leave the Demons?”

“No.” Sock’s answer to this question was immediate, and Jonathan took a step away from him. “Not really, anyway. I mean, I need their protection. I can’t survive on my own.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’ll find another group. Sometimes the guys back at base aren’t very nice to me.” As he said it, Sock realized that this part, at least, was true. Not that he could defend it in front of any other Demons. It would have to be a truth shared between him and...shit. Name. Name?

“What was your name, again? I don’t think you ever said.” Sock twisted his fingers together nervously. Test of trust, test of trust, and….

“Uh.” The blonde ran a hand through his hair, and Sock followed the movement closely. His hands were so big. How would it feel to just reach out and touch one? No, Sock. Focus. “Can you tell me yours again, first? I kinda forgot.”

Sock breathed a silent sigh of relief. “My name’s Sock. Well, it’s a nickname, but I like it better than my real name.”

“Oh. Alright.” Jonathan weighed his options. This guy was a terrible liar; he fiddled too much with his hands when he was trying to think. But when he’d said he wasn’t planning to eat Jonathan soon, his hands had been almost still at his side. That was truth, at least. If this kid (Sock, Jonathan reminded himself; Sock) was really looking for a new home, who was Jonathan to deny him a bit of company?

And really, he could use a guy who knew how to fight. Because he sure as hell did not. He swallowed heavily, the last of the brownie mix slipping its way down his esophagus. 

“Jonathan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments and kudos! They've really motivated me to keep writing. :)
> 
> Updates may be sporadic; I'm back at school now. But don't worry, I don't plan on abandoning this fic!


	4. All About Lil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lil leaves Jonathan behind and meets up with her 'friend'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! :D
> 
> You might have noticed that there's a second ship up in the tags. That didn't stop being a thing. 
> 
> This chapter is about Lil and Jojo, is what I'm trying to say.

For some reason, Lil had never had any trouble sleeping, even during the worst parts of the apocalypse. When other people were kept awake by the moans of the dying and echoes of the devastating news reports still pouring in from all over the world, Lil was curled beneath her blankets, cradling Cleo in her arms as they both drifted off into their own dreams.

Not much had changed on the sleep front, other than the fact that her cat wasn’t there to be a living furnace. She even still had one of the old blankets from her bed. So it wasn’t strange to Lil that she passed out within five minutes of laying down. Really, there were so many reasons she should’ve been more anxious: Demons nearby, her impending trek up north, the fact that there was another person within ten feet of herself.

She couldn’t recall much about Jonathan, other than his name and the name of the class they took together. And she remembered that he had bleached hair. Difficult to forget, of course. But she couldn’t recall any reason not to trust him, and, perhaps better, any reason not to help him. He hadn’t been one of those guys at school who teased her by pretending to ask her out on dates. He’d never made snide comments about her clothes. He didn’t try to shove his way into her life, making conversation when she wanted silence.

Overall, she could label Jonathan as a Decent Human Being. True, the bar was low, but it was kind of amazing how many people didn’t pass the test. It was even more amazing how many more didn’t pass now that the world had ended.

When Lil first heard about Ramot, she had been skeptical about its supposed worldwide doomsday impact. Hadn’t there been, like, ten of these already? Hadn’t there been vaccines developed for all of them? True, people were getting sick and dying at impressive rates. But surely this could be contained and cured the way many other diseases had been.

Turned out that idea was a load of bullshit.

Lil had escaped her neighborhood quite alone. It hadn’t been her decision, really, but if it had been up to her she’d probably be dead now. Sometime in the middle of the night, the college kids from the apartment down the hall literally broke down the door and tore Lil out of bed, screaming their dumb heads off about the Virus, the lady upstairs had Ramot, everyone had to leave now. She’d had just enough time to pull on a bra and pants before one of them, with tears of panic rolling down her cheeks, had shoved a blanket into her arms and tossed shoes at her face and shoved her out of the building and down the street.

Although half-asleep, Lil could recall asking where her mom was, did you get my mom? Yes, yes, now run!

Either the kid had been lying, or didn’t actually know, or her mother had died in that apartment building of Ramot, caught it from the old lady upstairs as it traveled through the air vents or something. Regardless, Lil had emerged from the mob fleeing the city without an adult, wearing pajamas and mismatched socks and a bra that hadn’t been washed in a week.

She hadn’t searched for her mother at all. Other people swarmed around her, frantically calling for loved ones, children, parents. Somehow, Lil felt her heart had been permanently numbed by adrenaline; that in the mass exodus of her suburb she had forgotten her ability to feel on her bedside table, and it was too late to go back and get it now.

Of course, she’d also forgotten Cleo. Part of Lil felt vindicated that she had asked her fellow escapees about her mother first; somehow, it took the place of the humanity she had left behind. At least she cared enough about her mom to ask about her first, and not her cat. At least she tried. Give her a gold star sticker, an A for effort.

It had been almost half a year since she’d been this close to the city. In that time, some sort of feeling had returned to Lil. She knew it wasn’t her own; if feeling was a commodity, she’d picked up someone else’s, the stuff they’d abandoned on the side of the road as they struggled to throw off the extra weight hindering survival.

Maybe when she entered her old bedroom, she’d find her old feelings still on the vanity, dusty and abused by the elements, but hers.

\------

She woke up to a sky just starting to lose its stars.

Carefully folding up her blanket and storing it away in her backpack (a sparkly pink number she’d found outside an elementary school; she’d tried not to think too hard about its previous owner as she emptied the contents onto the sidewalk), Lil brushed errant strands of hair out of her eyes. With one last look at Jonathan’s huddled form, Lil hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and quietly started for the road.

As soon as her feet hit the gravel, she swung the backpack around to her front and opened one of the small side pockets, removing a slightly squished breakfast bar. The box from which it had came had been a lucky find, abandoned in the very back of a small vegan grocery store. Somehow it had fallen down behind a box, overlooked by other looters but not escaping Lil’s careful examination. Her reward for diligence had been ten strawberry and banana flavored bars, each about 100 calories. She ate a quarter of one every morning for breakfast; so far she’d blown through five. This marked the beginning of the sixth.

Stashing the rest of the bar with the rest of its brethren, Lil nibbled on her quarter-bar and watched the sun slowly begin to rise as she started walking east. It was about ten miles to the highway that would take her up north, to Lake Erikson and beyond. Somewhere along the way, she’d have to stop and scavenge more supplies. She pushed the rest of the bar into her mouth and licked her fingers.

About a mile from the campsite, Lil started keeping a careful eye on the roadside, at the fields that surrounded the gravel road. Her feet kicked up a little less dust as she slowed her pace, searching the grass of the ravines. She’d left her ‘friend’--as she’d named the little brat to Jonathan--with instructions to meet up in the morning, after she’d determined if the blonde dot in the distance was former classmate or foe. At the time, there had been much grumbling and rolling of eyes, but this ‘friend’ tended to be reliable, and also incredibly punctual, so she should be--

“Oi.” The voice coming from the roadside ditch was flat and pissed and one that Lil had been growing accustomed to hearing lately.

“Oi, yourself.” She glared down into the grass, at the baseball cap and blonde hair she’d known would turn up eventually.

\------

That goddamn vegan grocery store. The gain of the breakfast bars--which usually would have made Lil’s day an unparallelled success--was shortly outweighed by the loss of her sanity.

She had made sure to hide her newfound food well before exiting the store, carefully stepping over broken glass and fallen shelving units, past the wrecked cash register and the security cameras pulled out of the ceiling. There was so much debris, in fact, that she hadn’t noticed Jojo until they were only a foot or so apart.

When she’d looked up to find a stern, pale face only inches from her own, Lil felt justified in letting out a deep gasp a bit of a squeak, but apparently Jojo had found this humorous. Humorous enough to snort at, anyway. Lil would have shouted at her for not making her presence known, but Jojo beat her to the conversation opener.

“Find something good in there?” She smirked, raising an eyebrow and pointing to Lil’s recently-zipped backpack.

Lil scowled and held the bag closer to her chest. “I’m not giving it to you, so back off.”

Again, Jojo snorted. “I don’t need your damn food. I got my own.” She patted the strap of the knapsack slung over her shoulder. “But you had to search pretty hard to get that stuff. You were in there for, like, an hour.” Lil felt her face heating up. How long had this girl been watching her?

“Look, I don’t know what you want, but go away. Leave me alone.” Lil made to step around the blonde, but found herself blocked as the girl moved along with her. Her scowl had been replaced, for a brief moment with panic.

“My name’s Jojo. I just want to talk to you. I guess.” The girl sighed, lifting her baseball cap off her head and brushing her bangs back. “What’s your name?”

Lil watched the girl place the cap back on her head, adjusting it with an expert and minute motion. “Magill. But you can call me Lil.”

Jojo snorted again, and Lil felt her eye twitch. Did this girl just find everything only slightly funny? Usually, her first name elicited at least a giggle. “Magill?”

Rolling her eyes, Lil resolutely started walking forward, not allowing Jojo to stand in her way again. “I know, I know. I didn’t choose it, if it makes you feel better about laughing.”

Jojo turned and jogged a little to catch up with Lil’s quick pace. “No, no. I’ve known guys with weirder names. Napoleon Maxwell. Who the hell names their kid Napoleon?”

Lil shrugged, pausing at the broken-in doorway to a flower shop. “People who like history, maybe? Who knows.”

“Nah, I think his parents were just sadists.” Lil gave Jojo a look, and she immediately started backtracking, the look of panic returned. “Not that your parents were sadists or anything. I’m sure they were perfectly nice people! Just a little weird when it came to naming babies! It happens to the best of us!”

Lil laughed--her first laugh in weeks--as she picked her way across the buckled doorframe and into the flower shop. She didn’t really expect to find anything here, but if this chick was going to insist on talking, it would be better to do it in a more private place.

Jojo deflated as Lil continued giggling, setting her bag down on the floor in between pots and broken bags of soil. When Lil sat down with a relieved sigh--her shoes really weren’t meant for this much walking--Jojo had the decency to look a little awkward, shuffling her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, she knelt down and sat across from Lil, making sure to place a large pot in between herself and the window.

When she had settled, Jojo brushed off her hands and asked, “Why are we in here anyway? You’re not planning to stay the night here, are you?”

Perhaps something in Jojo’s tone of voice, some tremble of doubt or fear, pulled a string of sympathy in Lil’s still-benumbed heart. Maybe she reasoned that, regardless of who this girl really was or why she was intent on making small talk, it wouldn’t hurt anyone to reveal her short-term plans. “Well, if we’re gonna talk, we might as well do it where no one can see us.”

“Ah, good idea.” Lil was about to say something like ‘yes, yes it is’, but Jojo opened her mouth again, and turned the world upside down. “The Demons are close by. Probably best not to stay outside making noise.”

“What?!” Jojo physically recoiled from Lil’s outburst, and Lil herself covered her mouth in horror. That had been too loud. Lowering her voice to a harsh whisper, she spat, “What?”

Jojo removed her cap again, twisting a piece around her finger. “There are Demons nearby. They’ve set up a base about seven miles from here.”

Lowering her face into her hands, Lil exhaled harshly. She became aware that she had started shaking, and she laced her fingers together to mask the tremor. “God, I’ve been hanging around here for almost a week. How have I not run into one yet?”

Lil expected a snort on Jojo’s part, a smart-ass answer like ‘pure dumb luck’, but she received neither. Jojo briefly lifted one corner of her mouth in something like a sympathetic smile and answered, “They usually scout out people who aren’t in their immediate range. They probably haven’t picked up on you yet.”

“Oh, is that all?” Lil sighed. She removed her hands from her face and reached for her bag. “If that’s true, I should get moving. I wanna get the hell out of here.”

“Wait!” Panic again. Lil narrowed her eyes at Jojo, sliding her hand up the strap of her backpack.

“What? Are you a Demon? Wanna keep me here until the butchers arrive?”

Again, Jojo physically recoiled--this time, it appeared, in horror and not in shock. “No! Hell no. Hell to the fucking no.” Jojo reached out and slapped Lil’s hand away from her bag. “Stop that. Let me explain.” She sucked in a deep breath, choked on air, and devolved into a small coughing fit. Lil couldn’t help herself; this girl tried so hard to be intimidating, but it just failed. She smiled.

Regaining her breath, Jojo glared at Lil, took a smaller breath, and began speaking.

“I’m from a Survival Society. We’re stationed up north, near Lake Prudence.” Lil did the math in her head--Lake Prudence was twenty miles north of Lake Erikson, where she and her mother used to spend their Independence Day weekends. Lake Erikson was almost fifteen miles outside city limits, including the suburbs. About forty miles total from her house. Maybe forty-five from their current location.

Jojo continued. “It’s run by a woman named Providence. She’s a doctor. And--so help me God, I swear this is true--she’s found a way to treat the Ramot Virus.”

“What? That’s not possible.”

“I swear, it’s true. I’ve seen her cure Ramot victims.”

Still skeptical, Lil shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I didn’t believe it either, at first. But it’s true. And besides a cure, we have food. Not scavenged, either.” Jojo pulled her bag from behind her and unzipped the main pocket. From inside, she pulled out a plastic baggie. Lil did a double take.

“Are those carrots?”

Jojo puffed out her chest in pride. “Yes, yes they are. Michelle pulled them out just for my trip.” Stuffing the bag back into her knapsack, Jojo explained, “Michelle is one of the Elders. She brought in a lot of seeds and tends our gardens. Apparently, as soon as she heard about the Ramot Virus she went out to the hardware store and bought all of their vegetable seed packets.”

Lil breathed out a laugh, still dazzled by the orange and yellow of the carrots. She hadn’t seen fresh produce in so long. It was definitely proof that Jojo was telling the truth, or something like it. But Lil had a more pressing question to ask.

“Why are you telling me about this? Is this why you wanted to talk?”

Jojo nodded and hugged her bag closer to her chest. “I...Providence thought maybe we could take in some more people. So she sent out some scouts to find survivors and bring them back. This is my first time doing this.” She giggled, the first real laugh Lil had heard from her. “I’m not very good at it, am I? I tried to tell Providence I’m not good at talking to people, but…” she waved her hand vaguely in the air.

“Hm.” Lil bit her lip. It was better than what she had now. The possibility of fresh food alone was enough to tempt her. She glanced up at Jojo, who was anxiously waiting for Lil to speak. The longer Lil hesitated, the more frustrated Jojo seemed to become. Maybe she thought that Lil believed she was lying. Hiding her mouth behind her hand, Lil smirked. She could have fun with this. And fulfill an errand she’d been meaning to attend to. Two birds, one stone, one little white lie.

“I think I’ll go with you.” Jojo perked up, but Lil stopped her before she could say anything. “But I need to do something first. A little job I need to do.” She suppressed a grin as Jojo’s face devolved into a scowl once more.

“What? Have to meet up with someone?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

\------

“I don’t know why you had to spend the night with him.”

“What are you implying? That I’m a woman of low character?”

“No, I’m implying that you’re a dumbass. That guy was an absolute wimp.”

“He is. I’m not sure he even had a weapon.”

“He’s gonna die. Did you at least tell him about the Demons?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“It’s not gonna do him much good. They’ll eat him alive.”

“Oh, have a little faith. He’s gotten this far. And I helped him, I told him where he should go. And I sent him in the opposite direction that we’re going, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t, but okay. So how far till we get to this dumb highway?”

“Maybe four more miles. And then twenty, straight north.”

“Fuck. All because you want to find your goddamn cat.”

“There’s something on her collar that I need.”

“‘There’s something on her collar that I need’, God you sound like a crazy cat lady.”

“You don’t know me. Maybe I was a crazy cat lady.”

“If you were, this is gonna be a long-ass trip.”

“Well, buckle in, honey. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”


	5. Birth Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan and Sock, the first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone! :D
> 
> Back with Sock and Jonathan, again.

That first day with Sock was the hardest.

Trust is a very fragile thing, even in the most ideal world where some more criminal element of society hasn’t taken advantage of other people’s misplaced trust and led them to their deaths. And after that initial encounter--his knee was still stinging from Sock’s kick--Jonathan wasn’t in much of a mood to trust his new travel companion with much more than his name and indifferent comments about the road, about the Ramot Virus, about how those clouds on the horizon were looking awfully dark.

Sock, of course, had never really learned distrust. How could he, when he knew that the scariest thing in the world was himself and people like him? The only person he’d ever hidden things from had been his father, and he was dead, buried under heaps of trash.

The point here being that Sock was over sharing and Jonathan was desperately trying to drive the conversation back to safer topics. And it wasn’t working.

“...So that’s the story of how I was born!” Sock finished up his latest story, folding his hands behind his back and leaning around to see Jonathan’s reaction. Said reaction was a hand pressed to the bridge of his nose and a tight frown across the lower part of his face. Why would you tell someone about how you were pregnancy number four, the only that didn’t miscarry, and were extracted via C-section three weeks before your due date? More importantly, why would you explain that your dad had fainted upon seeing your mother’s guts laying on the operation table? Who thought this was a good conversation topic? 

Apparently, Sock did. Jonathan could tell, from the fluency and expert structuring of Sock’s narrative, that this wasn’t the first time he had explained the circumstances and method of his birth. Jonathan pitied the first person who had heard this story. No doubt the entire tale had been messier back then. Literally and figuratively. 

Sock huffed and settled back to his place on Jonathan’s left side. He’d thought it would be the gentlemanly thing to do; protect his new friend from oncoming traffic by putting him next to the ditch. Some habits die more slowly than others, and the impulse to walk on the right side of the street was one of them. They could’ve walked along the middle line, they could’ve walked on the left, they could’ve swerved from side to side, drawing figure eights in the dust. But they stuck close to the right side, hugging the edges of the ditch. 

“Do you have any stories from when you were born?” Sock prompted, anticipating Jonathan’s dismissal of the topic. It had happened three times before; now, Sock wanted to stick to the subject he had chosen.

Jonathan shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feeling his empty water bottle. He didn’t dare refill it using the stagnant water sitting at the bottom of the ditch. Things hadn’t gotten quite that desperate. Yet.

“I guess I was just born. My parents never really had any stories about that.” He paused, thinking. “Actually, there was one. It was after I was born, while my mom was still in the hospital. My dad got food poisoning from the cafeteria food. Something bad on the salad line, I think. He was still puking by the time I got home.” Jonathan smirked, recalling the only time he’d heard that story. His father had been rather irate; his mother had been laughing her ass off. 

Sock pouted. “Not much of a story. But I guess that’s not your fault.” Sock’s own mother had been fond of telling him the story of his birth every year, on his birthday. Even when she wasn’t prompted, she’d just begin with, “My first three pregnancies were all miscarriages.” By this point, Sock could recite the entire tale, beginning to end, by heart. 

“No, it’s not. Do you mind if we stop a minute?” Sock shook his head, and Jonathan stopped to take the weight off his bad knee, sighing in relief.

Sock glanced nervously back down the road. He could still see, in the distance, the last place where they had stopped to rest. It couldn’t be more than two miles away. Jonathan’s pace was agonizingly slow, and Sock felt a twinge of guilt for feeling frustrated. It was partially his fault, after all, that Jonathan’s knee was hurting so much. 

Grunting with effort, Jonathan lowered himself to sit on the grass next to the road, letting out a small moan of pleasure when he was finally settled. “God, that feels good.” Sock pulled his hat down over his ears and ducked his head down to hide the blush he knew was crawling up his neck. His mind had gone to bad places, again. He really needed to figure out how to get his brain out of the gutter when it came to Jonathan. 

Meanwhile, Jonathan was stretching out his bad leg, prodding his knee for swelling. “It’s getting kind of cold, don’t you think? I wonder what month it is.”

Sock rolled his eyes. Again with the subject change. “It’s November.”

“Wha-” Jonathan whipped his head up to look at Sock. “How do you know that?”

Reaching into one of his inside pockets, Sock produced a small notebook. Inside were tally marks, grouped into fives and separated by little rows of shapes. “I started this at the beginning of the year. Every group is one month, every tally is one day.”

Jonathan reached out to hold the book, counting the month groupings. Sure enough, the latest unfinished section was the eleventh. He counted up the tallies. About halfway through the month. No wonder it was getting so cold.

He pointed out one mark, from the month before, that was circled before being crossed by a fifth mark. “What’s this one?”

Sock peeked into the notebook. “Oh, that’s my birthday! I, uh, didn’t really celebrate this year.” He played with the flaps of his hat sheepishly. Actually, on his birthday, Mephistopheles had given him first choice at dinner, a privilege usually reserved for older scouts. He’d eaten well that night. Even the bullies had wished him a Happy Birthday. It’d been a good day. 

Jonathan counted out the marks leading up to the circled tally. “October...Thirteenth?”

“Yep! Cool, huh?”

“I guess.” Jonathan closed the book and handed it back to Sock, who stashed it away in its special pocket. “Your birthday ever fall on a Friday?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sock pulled the sleeves of his coat down over his hands to protect them from the cool wind blowing up the road. “I was born on a Friday.”

“Okay, yeah. That’s pretty neat.” Chuckling, Jonathan crawled up to his feet again. “We can go now. I’m good.”

“Alright!” Sock waited for Jonathan to start walking and matched his pace. Still awfully slow. “When’s your birthday?”

Jonathan sighed and rolled his eyes. “How did I know you were going to ask that?” He watched Sock’s shoulders hunch up sheepishly as he let out a giggle. It was a little cute. Just a little. “My birthday’s in January. The fourteenth.”

“Bluh. I never liked January that much, it just seems so long. What’s it like having a birthday in the middle of winter?”

“You always have school on your birthday, and without fail it’s the coldest day of the entire goddamn year.” Jonathan griped. He’d never been fond of his birth month, mostly because he’d never been comfortable with his classmates singing the Happy Birthday song to him. What was he supposed to do while they sang? Smile at them? Smile at his desk? Hide in the hood of his sweater?

“Not gonna lie. That sounds kinda sucky.” 

“It was kinda sucky. At least I won’t have school this year.”

“True. Hey, um. How old are you? Or how old will you be?”

Jonathan sighed, trying to remember if a birthday had passed without his knowledge since the last time he’d seen a calendar. Deciding that it hadn’t--the last birthday he could remember was after his dad had died--he nodded and answered, “I’ll be seventeen in January.”

“Really?” Sock giggled, and Jonathan raised an eyebrow.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m older than you, actually! I just turned eighteen.” Jonathan’s look of shock was all that Sock could’ve hoped for. He burst into peals of laughter.  
“You’re kidding.” This kid was eighteen? He didn’t look a day over twelve! “How?”

“Uh, I was born before you. That’s probably how it happened.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Jonathan knocked his arm into Sock’s shoulder, annoyed. Sock, for his part, went on laughing. 

He stopped laughing, abruptly, when Jonathan stopped to take weight off his leg again. From Jonathan’s pinched expression and heavy breathing, Sock could tell it was time for another break. Looking back, he suppressed a groan.

Not even a mile. Maybe half, if you wanted to round up. 

“Hey, Jonathan?” Sock stepped closer to his companion, timidly extending a hand and brushing his fingers against the cloth of his hoodie. “Are you okay?”

“No,” was the sharp response, and Sock removed his hand. “What the fuck did you do to my knee? It hurt before, but now…” Jonathan tried to bend the knee, wincing in pain. “Now I can barely even walk on it.” 

“Sorry.” Sock twisted his fingers together in worry. If Jonathan couldn’t walk, how was this any different than dragging his prey back to base? The point of this method was that they prey provided its own transportation and the scout didn’t have to stop every few miles to take a breather!

That was the reason he would later give to justify his anxiety, anyway. Really, if he’d only been considering his job, he might’ve just said ‘fuck it’, killed Jonathan, and dragged the body back to base. It would’ve been easier. Maybe Mara would’ve reprimanded him for not choosing healthier prey.

But something, deep inside Sock’s gut, made his decision easy. He didn’t even pause to consider--should I kill him now? Should I leave him alone? As soon as Jonathan looked up into his face--into his eyes--he made his decision.

Jonathan was in pain, first and foremost; it was written all over his face, in every twitch of every muscle in every limb. His viscera were clamping down around a ball of powder that had stymied in his stomach. His knee was hyperextended and sprained. But besides this--aside from the gentle throbs of agony rolling over every part of his body--Jonathan was pissed. He’d gotten beat up by a kid at least twenty pounds lighter and five inches shorter than himself; said kid had started following him and jabbering into his ear, expecting Jonathan to spill out his life story; they’d stopped seven times in just under five hours. Jonathan was tired and annoyed and hurting and very much glaring up at Sock’s face.

It made Sock sick; that is, it made him want to throw up. He could feel his throat closing, bile rising. Nothing was really wrong with him, but his face was heating, blood pounding in his ears, and those eyes, those eyes, piercing him with blame. 

They were blue, Sock noticed. Blue eyes. A feature he’d always liked in guys; and now, on this man in particular, they were more than beautiful, they were striking. Striking right down into Sock’s stomach, pausing only to punch his heart along the way. 

He opened his mouth to speak before the idea had even really solidified. 

“We should stop somewhere until it gets better. I can help you with food and stuff, if you want.”

Jonathan heaved a heavy sigh, and Sock prepared for the gut-plunging feel of rejection, for the bile to press its way up his throat and into his mouth.

“Fine. Help me up.”


	6. Violet Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for kudos and comments! Love u all ;)
> 
> I have a cold. It sucks.

They weren’t able to find shelter that night, much to Sock’s chagrin. 

After Sock made his offer and Jonathan accepted, the two had hobbled down the road, keeping their eyes peeled for a shed, an abandoned house, something to stay in for a few days. If the weather had been nicer, Sock thought, they could have stayed outside in the woods along the road. As it stood, though, those dark clouds Jonathan had noticed earlier were creeping up on them and Sock could smell the threat of rain. The breeze from earlier was quickly picking up speed, checked only briefly by the windbreaks in between fields. 

At first, Jonathan had been able to limp along at his previous pace, shaking off any attempts of support from Sock. Gradually, though, he started slowing down, pain evident on his face as the time between steps grew longer and longer. Finally, Sock wrapped his arm under Jonathan’s arm, slapping away the hands that came up to remove him.

“We’ve moved ten feet in five minutes. At least let me help you take the weight off your knee!” Sock complained as Jonathan tried to squirm out of his loose grip. Jonathan paused, grumbling under his breath. Although he couldn’t quite make out whatever it was Jonathan was saying, Sock could feel the moment he made his decision. The weight on his arm increased incrementally, and he readjusted his hold.

“Only because I don’t wanna get rained on.”

Sock smirked, ducking his head so Jonathan wouldn’t see and accuse him of laughing at the taller boy. Clearing his throat, he followed the lead he’d been given. “Yeah, these clouds aren’t looking too great, are they?”

“No.” Jonathan didn’t say more than that, apparently absorbed in the task of keeping weight off his left leg and balancing himself on Sock’s arm. 

Sock was a little busy trying to ignore how warm Jonathan was to be annoyed by his glib response. Through the layers of clothing, Sock could feel Jonathan’s body heat, the harsh rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed, the gentle push of his pulse. He could also tell that this kid was thin as a rail; no wonder he’d downed that entire jar of brownie mix. Taking into consideration that Jonathan didn’t have much more on him than a water bottle and the clothes on his back, he probably hadn’t eaten in days when he walked into that department store. 

Of course, Sock couldn’t help him with that. All he had on his person in terms of food was a few bags of jerky, which, considering his status as a Demon, Jonathan wasn’t likely to accept. But he did have two water bottles, one of which was full. Sock perked up a little at the prospect of sharing his resources; such an act would surely build up some trust. Speaking of water, and taking into account the clouds that were darkening above their heads, Sock had an idea.

“You know, if it does rain tonight, you can refill your water bottle a little bit.” 

“That’d be a good idea.” Jonathan wheezed, and Sock hoisted him a bit higher on his arm. “How’d you know my water bottle was empty, anyway?”

Shit. What could Sock say to that? ‘I’ve been following you for almost two weeks’? No, that was creepy. Thinking quickly, he stammered out an answer.

“I didn’t. You, um, you should just refill whenever you get a chance.” Smooth as fuck. 

Jonathan took the explanation, anyway. He shrugged, muttered, “Fine,” and concentrated again on hopping down the road on his one good leg.

They didn’t speak again until Sock felt the first few drops of rain hit his face. “We should stop now. Rain’s starting.”

“I can tell!” Jonathan snapped. He’d been gritting his teeth for the past half hour, trying not to scream from the pain. At one point, he’d even bit down on his tongue, trying to distract himself from the pain in his leg with pain in his mouth. And he’d been watching the dirt on the road turn dark with raindrop splatters for the last five minutes. Apparently none of them had hit Sock hard enough for him to care, and Jonathan couldn’t say anything because the minute he opened his mouth he was going to let out the most unmanly screech. Safe to say, Jonathan was feeling a little stressed. 

After some trial and error (“No, don’t put my foot there, let me just--OW FUCK”), Sock managed to help Jonathan over the roadside ditch with only minimal shouting. From there, it was a short walk to the nearest windbreak. Once there, Sock left Jonathan leaning against a tree and started kicking sticks out of the way, making a tiny clearing. Jonathan raised an eyebrow--wasn’t it a little small for two of them?--but chose not to say anything, focusing instead on the oncoming sheet of rain he could see approaching from a distance.

“Hey, Sock?” 

“Ow, stupid branch--what?”

“We’re gonna get fucked up by this storm in about two minutes--actually, make that one minute.”

Sock didn’t even pause to look where Jonathan was pointing. He had his tarp out and laid down in thirty seconds flat. He grabbed a stick, stabbed it in the ground, and draped one of the rivets over it. “Get in!”

Jonathan shot Sock a disdainful look just as the rain reached their campsite. Within seconds, both of them were drenched. Sock pulled his sopping hat off his forehead and scowled right back. 

“I thought you didn’t want to get rained on?”

“That was before you told me to get into a lame-ass tent!”

“Excuse you, this is not a ‘lame-ass tent’. This is a tarp.”

“Same difference. Can we really both fit under that?”

“Uh, yes.” Sock didn’t bother to explain why he had a tarp in the first place, and Jonathan didn’t ask. Probably for the best; it would be hard to justify the particularly nasty stain that covered one of the lower corners. Before that particular kill, Sock hadn’t even known that tarps could get stains. Oh, how wrong he was. 

“It doesn’t look big enough.” Jonathan limped over to the opening, peering inside at the dry soil and brush. His own hoodie was slowly soaking through. He could feel the rainwater trickling down his back and drenching his t-shirt.

Sock rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I promise, it’s big enough for one night.” It was also big enough, Sock knew, to fit a family of four. Of course, that had been a tight fit, he’d had to stack the little ones on top of their parents, but that was easy. No big deal. 

“Fine, fine.” Jonathan knelt down, wincing as he landed on his knee. Slowly, he crawled under the tarp. His jeans were starting to stick to his skin, and his hoodie rode up a bit as he slid underneath. Sock made a point to busy himself placing his half-full water bottle in a clear spot to catch the rain. (He did look over his shoulder once, just to make sure Jonathan was doing all right. He whipped his head back around so fast the flaps of his hat slapped him in the face.)

When Jonathan had situated himself under the tarp, Sock bent down and peeked in. Just the act of crawling in by himself seemed to have winded Jonathan; he was wiping rainwater and sweat off his forehead. He heaved a final sigh and swept a hand through his hair. 

Sock licked his lips and put on a quick smile when Jonathan looked up at him. “Give me your water bottle?”

Jonathan reached down into his hoodie and pulled out a clear bottle, empty but for a few drops of condensation. Sock unscrewed the lid and placed it next to his own water bottle. He didn’t bother running; he could already feel his undershirt sticking to his skin, and hoped that he could dry out a bit in the morning. He’d never liked the feeling of wet cloth on his bare skin. It felt sticky, too warm to be comfortable, too cold to be enjoyable.

When he got back to the tarp, he turned around to scoot in feet-first. Normally, he would’ve done what Jonathan had--head-first, then turn around onto his stomach or back. But he would rather not bump into his companion more than necessary; it was already going to be an an awkward night.

Sock grimaced as he felt the ground underneath his torso soak up the water dripping from his coat. He made a note to himself: find waterproof jacket. 

The world outside was quickly growing dusky. It had been early evening when they’d arrived, and the advent of the rainstorm wasn’t helping the dying light. Inside the tarp, Sock leaned forward on his arms and stole a glance at Jonathan. Everything inside was stained blue by the light filtering through the plastic, although this too was beginning to fade. 

Lightning flashed, briefly lighting up the world under the tarp. Jonathan saw Sock stick his hand out into the rain to wash off some dirt he’d accumulated while crawling in. Sock counted the seconds--One, two, three, four, five, six--Thunder rolled over from a distance. 

“A little over a mile away. It’s moving awfully fast!”

“If I’d known it was a thunderstorm, I would’ve gotten under the tarp faster.” Jonathan griped, wringing some water out of his hoodie.

“If I’d known it was a thunderstorm, I wouldn’t have camped under trees.” Sock peeked out. The treetops were swaying rhythmically in the wind, but they looked sturdy enough not to fall down during the night.

“Oh, shit. Do you think they’ll attract lightning?”

“Hmm, maybe. But if we’re lucky, we’ll just be on the outskirts of the storm. It was moving kinda away from us.”

“‘Kinda away from us’?”

Sock took off his hat and twisted one of the flaps, watching the water splash on the ground outside. “Well, we’re still going south, and the storm was over kinda by the east, so maybe it will miss us.”

“Wow. Okay, thanks, Mr. Weatherman.” Jonathan snorted and rested his head on his arms.

“Oh, shut up.” Sock reached over and pushed Jonathan’s shoulder. “You’re not afraid of lightning, are you?”

Jonathan snorted again. “No. Are you?”

“Nope!” Sock smiled, although by this point it was so dark he knew that Jonathan couldn’t see him. “Actually, my mom and I used to go outside whenever there was a thunderstorm. There was a graveyard near my house, and we’d go walking out there. Especially during the summer storms.”  
“Why? Sounds dangerous.”

“I think my mom liked that it was dangerous. She’d even take along an umbrella, sometimes, and just stand out in the open.” Sock closed his eyes, remembering. Remembering how his mother looked, standing stock-still in the rain, wind whipping her hair across her face in dark brown ribbons as the thunder boomed down from the heights and the lightning targeted the tall hills behind their house, lighting the world in blue and purple and white. “I think she was prettiest when she was looking for lightning.”

Jonathan nodded, not realizing that Sock couldn’t see the gesture. “You know, I used to do photography.”

“Really? That’s cool.”

“Well, it was kinda just a hobby. I never really took it seriously.” Sock heard, rather than saw, Jonathan turn his head in his direction. “But one time, I decided I wanted to try taking a picture of lightning--you know, like the ones you see online a lot?” 

“Yeah. Did you get one?”

“Almost. I went up to this ridge on the edge of town during a storm and took a picture every time I saw any sort of light. Closest I ever got was half of a tree. Still looked cool as hell, though.”

“I bet.” Sock closed his eyes, listening to the steady hum of the rain outside.

“You know, one time we got a lightning storm in January. On my birthday. It was pretty neat.”

Sock smiled. “Lightning in winter is purple. I’ve seen it.”

“It is. Did you see it with your mom?”

“No, that one was on my own.” Actually, it had been right after his mother had died. That night had been a bad one. His first thunderstorm without his mother. The purple color of the lightning was the main thing Sock remembered clearly, but he had foggy memories of crying until he couldn’t see, of wishing the lightning would strike down on his head and fry his brains so he wouldn’t have to live anymore.

It had been a bad night.

The rain slowed down to a gentle downpour after only half an hour. As Sock had suspected, the storm was only skirting this area. Soon, the lightning ceased, the thunder resounded gently in the distance. Between the two of them, Jonathan and Sock had heated the inside of the tarp, and Jonathan felt droplets of condensation trickle down the side nearest his hand. Sock heard Jonathan’s breathing even out as his own eyes began to droop shut.   
“Good night,” he murmured, unsure if Jonathan would answer.

There was a brief pause, during which Jonathan readjusted his head so that he was looking more in Sock’s general direction. He couldn’t see Sock, just the vague outline of a body, but he could hear him breathing, slow and heavy. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth.

“Good night.”


	7. The Victoria House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the new kudos! I love seeing the notifications in my email :)
> 
> I'm almost over my cold! But now I have a crap ton of homework to do :

The rain stopped sometime in the early morning, and by the time Sock woke up the sun was just peeking over the horizon and staining the few remaining rain clouds pink. Groaning, he flipped onto his stomach and crawled out from under the tarp. He brushed off the dirt sticking to his jacket as well as he could, reaching up underneath the fabric of his t-shirt to scratch at his stomach. Nearby, their water bottles were still standing upright. Jonathan’s was almost half full now, with only minimal debris gathering towards the bottom. 

Sock heard squawking and looked up to the sky. A group of geese, in typical V-formation, flew overhead. Still heading south for the winter. At least some animals could continue as usual. Of course, as soon as they landed, they’d be prime prey for survivors. 

Looking back at Jonathan, Sock was relieved to see that he was still sleeping. Even asleep, he seemed to be peeved about something, his eyebrows drawing together on his forehead. Sock placed Jonathan’s water bottle just outside the tarp, well within his reach. Without his companion watching, Sock felt comfortable reaching back to his bag and pulling out a piece of jerky. Munching idly, he started pacing around the small clearing, considering possibilities of more permanent shelter. 

He wasn’t used to this line of thinking. Usually, he would just sleep out in the open, but then again, his expeditions often lasted only a few days. Rolling his shoulder, Sock winced and massaged his sore muscles. The last two weeks had wreaked havoc on his back, and if he could find a place where he didn’t have to sleep on the ground, he’d take it in a heartbeat. 

Behind Sock, the sound of rustling tarp indicated that Jonathan was starting to rouse himself from sleep. Shoving the rest of his jerky into his mouth hastily, Sock turned and crouched next to the opening of the tarp. Jonathan’s eyes were already open, clogged with sleep. He stretched his back, arching up off the ground. Landing back on the dirt, he stared up at Sock reproachfully. 

“How are you so awake this early?”

Sock shrugged, smiling. “Just used to it, I guess. I didn’t used to be, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t, but thanks.” Jonathan rolled onto his stomach, muttering curses under his breath whenever he put too much weight on his left leg. Slowly, he crawled out from under the tarp. Sock wrapped his arm around Jonathan and helped him to his feet, then to a tree that he could lean on while sipping from his water bottle. 

The sun was almost above the horizon when they started down the road again. Jonathan’s stomach was making ugly gurgling noises, and once he determined that they weren’t ‘going to puke’ sounds, Sock started giggling uncontrollably every time he heard one. At first Jonathan wasn’t amused--Sock was surprised at how hard he could hit when pissed--but when the gurgles became almost constant and Sock was dying of laughter, he managed a few laughs. 

They rested frequently. Whenever Sock felt the weight on his arm increase, he carefully steered them over to the side of the road and suggested a breather. During one of these breaks, he brought up the subject of finding better shelter.

“Do you have a preference? Like, I could try to find a house or something, but it’s probably a ways to the next one.”

“Nah, if it has a roof I’ll be good.”

“Um, okay. Like what?”

“One time my mom and I stayed in someone’s car. There’s bound to be an abandoned truck or something around here somewhere.”

Sock nodded. He never would’ve thought of something like that, but the thought of sleeping on a cushioned car seat was rather appealing at the moment. “But there haven’t been any cars on this road yet.”

“It’s a gravel backroad, the only people who use these are farmers. You’d probably find a tractor before you found a car.” 

“How are we going to find one, then?”

“Hey, I never said a car was my first choice. As long as there is a roof and something softer than dirt to sleep on, I’m good.” Jonathan rolled his eyes and tugged at Sock’s arm. “Let’s get going. It’s been a while since we saw a house, so maybe there’s one nearby.”

As a matter of fact, there was a building only a little ways down the road. Unfortunatley, it was one of those run-down buildings one so often sees in fields along rural streets--grey and splintering wood straining to remain standing underneath a collapsed roof, with grass and moss growing up over the interior. Sock pointed at the dilapidated shed and giggled, “Should we take it? It’s a fixer-upper, though. But some new paint would do wonders.”

“Very funny,” Jonathan shook his head. “Still a good sign. Those are usually near actual houses.”

“Are you saying that’s not a real house? It has a roof! And walls!”

“Sock, that is not a roof and you know it. That is a death trap waiting to be sprung.”

“Oh well.” Sock gave the shed one last wistful glance. “We’d probably disturb all the spiders, anyway.”

“You mean you would disturb them. I’d rather sleep outside again than have a brown recluse crawl onto my face during the night.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sock rocked his shoulder up into Jonathan’s armpit, earning a short laugh from the blonde. “Spiders are just misunderstood. One time--”

“I swear to God, if you start babbling about being friends with spiders I’m going to hit you. Again.”

“I look forward to it. So anyway, this one time I found a huge spider outside my house--”

Jonathan stopped suddenly, and Sock thought for a sickening second that his leg had gotten worse, that he couldn’t walk anymore. But no--he was looking up at the large farmhouse that had emerged from behind a dense windbreak. Sock craned his neck to get a view of the roof. It seemed intact, at least from the road. 

The house had probably been painted white at one time, but without proper care it was quickly turning to a grey-brown, blending in well with the trees outside. Surrounding one end of the house was a large porch, the kind Sock remembered seeing on old Victorian houses in movies. He could see that two of the three steps up to the front door had rotted and collapsed, the third holding on by little more than nails. The door was broken in. Someone else had already been here.

Sock turned to Jonathan, who was counting the number of broken windows. “Wanna check it out?”

“Not really. But we should, I guess.”

Limping up the driveway--overgrown with weeds that were quickly dying in the November chill--Sock let go of Jonathan near the garage. “I’ll go in and see if there’s anyone here. Stay there.” Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, and Sock cut him off. “I’m the one who can walk up stairs, here.”

Rolling his eyes but conceding the point, Jonathan muttered, “Okay.” Turning to go, Sock barely heard his next words. “Be careful.”

Placing one hand on the handle of his knife, Sock picked his way up to the front door. The porch was beginning to rot, destined for the same fate as the stairs, and he stepped carefully over the weakening wood. Laying in front of the doorway was the screen door, ripped off its hinges by some desperate hand. The actual door was still attached, haphazardly, to the hinges, sitting at a skewed angle in the entryway. 

Stepping inside, Sock paused for a moment to adjust his eyes to the sudden darkness of the house. He could make out the lines of couches and chairs, tables overturned to the floor. Cautiously, he crept into the living room. Almost everything was coated in a thin film of dust and dirt--a good sign. No one had been there recently. After determining that the front rooms were abandoned, he snuck towards the back. Opening a door, he found himself blinded by white. Blinking a few times, he realized that he’d found the kitchen. None of these windows had been broken yet, although a few were cracked. Every cupboard had been opened, and the refrigerator was giving off the telltale smell of rotten eggs and milk. 

In the back of the kitchen, the pantry was ransacked. Empty boxes littered the floor, and Sock checked to see if dust was covering this part of the house too. It was. On the bottom shelf, in the very back, he could see a few jars with preserves inside, masking tape giving the date they’d been made. He made note of them and moved on.

Sock was nothing if not thorough. He opened every closet door he found, seeking signs of habitation. Once he’d toured the first floor, he climbed the stairs to the second. 

He could tell what he was going to find as soon as he reached the first landing. 

Inside the master bedroom, two bodies lay on top of the duvet. Their skin was unmarred by the boils typical of Ramot, and Sock relaxed a bit. The sheets beneath them were stained an ugly shade of brown and Sock tried not to focus on the few white grains that were still wriggling over their faces. He reached for the doorknob and quietly closed up the room, lessening the smell significantly. Not entirely, though, which meant there was another body.

Walking down the hallway, Sock found a linen closet, a bathroom, an empty bedroom, and a small study. The last room on the righthand side was closed, but unlocked, and Sock peeked inside. It was a child’s room, probably for a girl from the pink color of the walls and the dollhouse in the corner. And, laying under the covers in the middle of the bed, a small body was decaying. Again, there were no boils. But on the vanity next to the bed was an open bottle of pills and three plastic cups. 

Sock silently backed out of the room and closed the door as quietly as he could. 

Outside, Jonathan was impatiently bouncing his leg. Sock descended the rotting steps and jogged over. “It’s empty.”

“You sure?” Jonathan asked, looking back up to the broken second-story windows. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. There’s even some food left in the pantry.” Sock offered his arm. “Come on, you can sit in the living room.”

After carefully going up the stairs again--the porch creaked ominously under their combined weight--Sock helped Jonathan settle onto one of the sofas. “I’m gonna go to the upstairs bathroom and see if there’s a First Aid kit or something.” Jonathan nodded, breathing heavily. Navigating the steps had been more trouble than he’d expected. 

Sock disappeared into the bowels of the house, and Jonathan took the opportunity to look around at the living room. There were a few paintings on the walls, a black and white photograph of very stern-faced Victorians. He heard Sock shout upstairs, followed by a crash and a loud curse. 

“You okay?” He called. There were a few seconds of silence, just enough for him to start worrying about his companion, when he heard the response.

“Yeah, I’m fine! I found some painkillers!”

Jonathan heard Sock’s hurried steps coming back down the stairs, and leaned out to see him come rushing into the living room, carrying a bottle of pills and looking a little worse for wear. “What happened?”

“Oh...Heh.” Sock shrugged, opening the bottle and shaking out a few pills. “There was, um. There was a person. In the bathtub. He surprised me, is all.”

“What?” Jonathan started to stand up, only to be pushed down again by Sock. “I thought you said no one was here!”

“No one is here.” Sock grabbed his hand and plopped two pills into it. “The guy was dead. Not Ramot, before you ask.” 

“Then what?” He slipped one of the pills into his mouth and sipped enough water to swallow it.

Sock shrugged and flopped down next to him. “I don’t know. Point is, don’t go upstairs. There’s a bathroom down here if you need it.” Lies; the man upstairs had been sitting in a pool of dried blood in the bathtub. His neck had been left gaping open, the razor was in the toilet. 

Jonathan rubbed the second pill between his fingers. “Was that guy the only person here?” Sock looked down at his hands, picking at the dirt under his fingernails.

“No. There were three others. They’re all dead.” Nodding, Jonathan took the second pill.

“Are we gonna do anything with ‘em?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Like, bury them, or something.” Sock shook his head, standing up.

“There’s no point. They’re almost completely rotted anyway.”

“We could wrap them in sheets and carry them outside.” Jonathan protested, trying again to stand up. He was pushed down again by a gentle hand from Sock.

“Maybe, but not now. I don’t think I can do it by myself.” Another lie; Sock had carried people heavier than four half-decayed corpses over more difficult terrain than two flights of stairs. But Jonathan didn’t need to know that. He also didn’t need to know what a person looked like after having his throat cut. 

“Alright, but as soon as I can walk up the stairs we’re getting them outside.” Sock smiled tiredly. How cute; he still thought that burying people mattered. He was too worn out to argue or even laugh. 

“Sure. I’m gonna see what’s in the pantry.” He turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen. “You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

“No, I’m good.”

A minute later, Sock called back, “So what do you want? Tomatoes or peaches?”

“Tomatoes. Make sure they smell okay.”

“Duh, I’m not stupid.”

They choked down half a jar of tomatoes for supper. Sock complained that the cook had used too many spices; Jonathan thought they were a little bland. Really, it was like swallowing spoonfuls of ketchup. It was the texture that bothered Jonathan. The tomatoes were slimy and soft, but he could force them down with only minimal chewing. 

Sock dug through some of the drawers in the dining room and found a therapeutic candle, along with a baggie of matchbooks. He pocketed most of the matches and took the candle out to the living room and lit it on one of the tables. “To soothe your nerves,” he giggled as Jonathan glared at him from the couch. 

When the sun started going down, Sock dashed back upstairs with the candle and sifted through the linen closet. No blankets, but there were a few sets of sheets, and he dragged them back downstairs. 

“Why do you get the Barbie sheets?” Jonathan teased when Sock entered and threw the boring blue sheets at him. 

“What, do you want them?”

Jonathan snorted, sorting out the loose sheet from the fitted. “No, thanks.”

“Then I’ll take them! Aren’t they cute?” Sock lifted one of the sheets over his shoulders and twirled around, showing off the pattern. 

“Uh, sure. Sure.” 

“I thought you’d say that.” Sock grinned. When Jonathan had draped the sheet over his sofa, Sock bent over and blew out the candle with a gentle puff of air. He plopped into one of the armchairs, curling up into the sheets. 

The rustling from the couch quieted, followed by Jonathan’s whispering voice. “Goodnight.”

Sock smiled, breathing in the last few wisps of smoke from the candle. “Goodnight.”


	8. In Front of the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments, everyone! I'm happy you're enjoying the story so far :D
> 
> Longer chapter this time since I didn't update earlier in the week. Sorry bout that :( School kinda sucker punched me with essays.

Sock woke up in pain. As it turned out, sleeping in an armchair wasn’t much better than sleeping on the ground. As he rose from his curled position, he rolled his shoulder, trying to loosen up the muscles. Something dribbled out of his mouth, and he wiped at it. Drool. It was on the arm of the chair, too. Wiping his mouth, Sock stood and stretched out his back.

Across the room, Jonathan shifted in his sleep. He sighed, then yawned. Slowly, he opened one eye, scanning the ceiling, then towards the armchair. Sock covered up the drool puddle with his sheet.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty!” He bounced over to the sofa.

“Mmf.” Jonathan rubbed a hand over his face, sitting up. He tried to lift himself off the couch, but a jolt of pain in his left leg forced him to settle into a sitting position. 

“Not any better today?” Jonathan shook his head, yawning. “You want more painkillers?” Upon receiving a nod, Sock set off for the bathroom, where he had left the pill bottle. He plucked it off the counter, pausing to look at the toilet. Cautiously, he lifted up the lid. A thin puddle of water coated the bottom, and Sock took that as a good sign. Closing the lid, he opened the cistern. Half full. 

He rushed back to the living room, shoved the pill bottle in Jonathan’s hands, and seized both their water bottles off the side table.

“Wha…?” Jonathan groggily squinted at the bottle. 

“You need two, but wait til I get back.” Sprinting back to the bathroom, Sock unscrewed the lids on both bottles and dipped them carefully into the cistern. 

When he returned to the living room, Jonathan was looking a little more awake. He’d at least managed to unscrew the child safety lid and take out two pills, which he was now holding loosely in his hand. Sock handed him a now-full water bottle with a proud smile. Jonathan stared at it for a few seconds before the change clicked.

“Where’d you get water?”

“Promise you won’t get grossed out if I tell you?”

Jonathan glared suspiciously up at Sock. “...Fine. Promise.”

“Back of the toilet.” Sock giggled at the shock that crossed Jonathan’s face. Jonathan looked back to his water bottle, sighed, and uncapped it. He threw both pills in his mouth, shut his eyes, and took one gulp of water. After he swallowed, he stuck out his tongue.

“Blegh. Well, at least it doesn’t taste like pee.”

“Of course not. The cistern water doesn’t touch that stuff.”

Jonathan shrugged and leaned back to place the bottle back on the table. “Sorry, don’t know much about toilet mechanics.”

“Neither do I, but at least I know what I can use.” 

“Oh, shut up.”

“No can do, I’m afraid. You’re just gonna have to deal with my beautiful voice for the rest of the day.” 

“Oh, Lord.” Jonathan let his head hang back on the arm of the sofa, and Sock couldn’t help but appreciate the view of his neck, the way his Adams Apple bobbed when he swallowed. Sock let out a little nervous laugh and sat back down on the armchair. “What are you doing today, anyway?”

Sock thought for a moment, staring resolutely up at the ceiling. “I think I’ll just explore down here. Maybe get something in front of the doorway.”

“Okay. What should I do?”

Looking across the room to Jonathan, Sock smirked. “Sit there and look pretty.”

He fled the room before Jonathan finished squawking in indignation. 

\------

In the kitchen, Sock sorted through the cabinets. Whoever had been there before them had been thorough in stripping away anything that could be eaten. All he could find was dishes, and most of those were cracked or broken. There were a few plastic cups on one of the lower shelves, decorated with Disney characters and glitter. Thinking back to the bedrooms upstairs, Sock gently pushed these into the back of the cabinet and grabbed a few glasses that weren’t cracked too badly instead. 

By the time he worked his way through all the cupboards and drawers, the sun was well above the horizon and shining brightly through the kitchen windows. Looking out across the yard, Sock marvelled over how tall the grass had grown with no one around to cut it. The tops of some were brushing against the bottom of the windowsill, and that was at least five feet over the ground. 

Sock decided to skip the refrigerator for now. Just standing too close to the door made him feel a little queasy. He’d already scoured the pantry searching for those jars of preserves--now sitting out on the kitchen counter--and, besides the very backs of the top shelves, it was empty. Next to the pantry was a small closet with towels and cleaning supplies, and he picked over these disinterestedly. Around mid-morning, he trotted back into the living room.

Jonathan was snoozing on the sofa. Sock couldn’t blame him; it would be better for him to get sleep while he could. He quietly stepped around the back of the sofa, stealing a glance (or two) at Jonathan’s sleeping face. Silently, he passed into the entryway. Here, he tried picking up the door. No luck; it was too heavy, too twisted on its hinges. Standing back, Sock twisted a strand of hair around his finger, looking around for something else to use to block the doorway. Something that he could remove, preferably. He’d rather not take the back door and wade through all that grass. 

Glancing back into the living room, Sock spied some small bookshelves next to the television. If he took the stuff off the shelves, he could probably lift one of them on top of another. Again walking past Jonathan, Sock quietly began denuding the bookcases, stacking the contents on the floor. Once two of them were empty, he grabbed the end of one and pulled.

And promptly fell on his ass. 

“Ow!” Sock rolled his wrist after sitting up. A little sprained, but nothing serious. Unfortunately, the noise had woken up one Jonathan. He started, then sighed once he caught sight of Sock on the floor. 

“What’re you doing down there?” 

Sock got up onto his knees and stared down the bookcase. “I was trying to move this, but it’s harder than I thought.” Standing, he tried again, with less force this time. “Why won’t it move?”

“Try lifting and then pulling, dumbass. It’s embedded in the carpet.” Jonathan pointed towards the base of the shelf, which was digging into the soft floor.

Sock huffed and did as Jonathan suggested. With only a few more mishaps (“Oh God where did that table come from?” “Uh, it’s been there this whole time, Sock.”), he was able to move it in front of the door. The second one was easier, until he got to the entryway and had to lift. That took some effort, and no small amount of laughing on Jonathan’s part. 

Flopping down onto the armchair, Sock wheezed as Jonathan finished his latest bout of giggles. “I thought you were stronger than that, but that was kinda pathetic.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sock glared at the blonde, still sitting under his sheets on the sofa. Said blonde smirked.

“No can do. You’re just gonna have to listen to my beautiful voice for the rest of the day.” Sock heaved a sigh and flipped Jonathan off as he devolved into another fit of laughter. 

When he’d caught his breath, Sock slid off the armchair and scooted over to the piles of stuff he’d taken off the shelves. One item in particular had caught his attention: a small plastic tote labelled “Andrea” in black sharpie. Jonathan turned to watch him better. “What’s that?”

“Dunno! I’m gonna open it.” Sock released the snaps on both sides and set the lid aside. Inside the tote were several dolls, and Sock immediately regretted his decision to snoop. He’d never liked assigning names to corpses, and the little one upstairs was getting way too much identification. Jonathan craned his neck over the coffee table to see the contents.

“Dolls? Geez, that’s a letdown.” Sock swallowed whatever grief might’ve been swelling up his throat and rolled his eyes at Jonathan. 

“It’s not a letdown! See, they’re really pretty!” He picked up one with green skin and white hair. “Although they’re a little skinny, I’ll admit.”

“Do you actually know anything about dolls?” Jonathan slowly slid off the couch and moved to sit on the floor next to Sock.

“A little bit, yeah. I used to play with my neighbor’s Barbies when I was little.” Sock held up the green-skinned doll and scrutinized her face. “But I don’t recognize these. It’s kinda creepy, huh?”

Jonathan held out his hand and Sock handed him the doll. “Nah, it’s one of those new dolls. My little cousin used to have some.” He turned it over, smoothing out her hair as he went. “Pretty well taken care of. My cousins destroyed their dolls. Once they put two in the microwave and almost burned down their house.”

Sock laughed a little, taking out the next few dolls in the tote. “It looks like she had quite the collection.”

“She?” Jonathan paused in examining the green doll. Sock bit his lip--what to tell him?

“There’s, uh. There are bodies upstairs.” He decided to leave it at that, and Jonathan didn’t press him for more details, just nodded in understanding. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Jonathan and Sock looked through the bookshelves in the living room. Besides the tote, there were plenty of books and magazines, some of them pretty recent. One, which had been sitting on top of the television, was from the month before Sock and his parents had fled the city. He flipped through, looking for something--anything--about Ramot. Eventually, in a small side column, he found it. 

“There’s an article about Ramot in here.” He looked up at Jonathan, who was idly flipping through the pages of a housekeeping magazine. Pausing mid-page flip, Jonathan returned Sock’s stare. 

“Read it.”

Sock cleared his throat and traced his finger along the tiny print. “‘Recent developments of a potent virus have erupted in Eastern Europe this last month. Authorities reported an unusual epidemic in a small town named--’ geez, how do you pronounce that, nevermind-- ‘which resulted in 100% fatality. From there, it appears that the virus, now named Ramot for the doctor who examined the disease earlier this month, has spread throughout the country and is wreaking havoc on local infrastructure. Governments across Eastern Europe are weakening under the strain of the virus. Several have closed their doors to the public. A United Nations meeting has been called to discuss potential cures, research, and quarantine efforts.’”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it. I guess no one really knew much back then, so it makes sense.”

Jonathan was silent for a few moments, and Sock began to wonder if reading the article had been a mistake. He didn’t dare to flip the page, though. These words were so clinical, so disaffected. And so many people had died since it was written. When Jonathan took a breath, preparing to say something, Sock jumped a little, then smiled sheepishly. 

“Hey, Sock?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever watch zombie movies, or anything like that?"

“Uh.” Sock tried to remember the horror movies he had seen, the episodes of television series his classmates had watched on their phones in class. “A few, but I get the concept.”

“You ever get the feeling in those stories that it’s just one area that’s completely fucked up?”

“What?”

“Like, this one place--like America, or Britain, or wherever. It’s just fucked over, zombies running everywhere and people dying left and right.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“I always got the feeling, when I watched that kind of stuff, that it must just be that one place that’s doing horribly. They never talk about any other places. Like, how’s Japan doing? Or Madagascar? Or Russia? Are they fucked up too? Nobody ever says anything.”

“No, I guess they don’t.” Sock quietly closed the magazine, hiding the offending article.

“I guess...I don’t know. I think lately I’ve been realizing that the whole world is done for. That it’s not just us, it was everyone.”

Sock stared down at the magazine cover, running the pages over his fingers. “I don’t think it could’ve been any other way.”

Silence filled the room again. Sock looked up from his lap to find Jonathan staring at him. Almost sadly, if that was the right word. He tried for a smile, but it felt strained on his face. The one he got in return wasn’t much better, but at least they had made the effort. 

Sock pushed the magazine away, grabbing ahold of the housekeeping rag Jonathan had been browsing earlier. “You ever notice how dumb the ads in these things are?”

\------

Jonathan spent the next few days recovering--mostly by popping pain meds and sleeping--until he could walk around the living room without limping. He wasn’t quite sure what Sock had been up to. Of course, he’d been sleeping and eating on roughly the same schedule as Jonathan, but there were long stretches of time when he couldn’t hear any movement in the house, no shuffling in the kitchen or the bathroom. 

Once, he asked Sock about it. The only answer he got was a “Don’t worry about me, just focus on getting better,” and some finger twiddling. Never a good sign with Sock; and now that he could walk, Jonathan was intent on following him.

The next morning, they had a small breakfast--the preserves were running low; it was a good thing Jonathan would be able to move in a day or two--and Jonathan lay down on the sofa for a fake nap. Sock stayed in the living room for a while, flipping again through the magazines he had already read. Jonathan was just about to go to sleep for real when Sock quietly stood up and left the room, in the direction of the front door.

When he heard the shelves slide out and back, Jonathan cracked open one eye and cautiously sat up. So Sock was leaving the house. Now the only thing left to do was figure out why.

Standing, Jonathan slipped into his shoes and made his way to the door. Moving the shelves quietly was harder than he expected; Sock must’ve worked out a method if he did it so fast. Once outside, Jonathan blinked in the bright light, straining to see where Sock might have gone. In any case, he didn’t appear to be in the front yard. Jonathan started walking around to the side of the house, stepping carefully over smashed lawn ornaments and avoiding particularly tall patches of grass. On one side of the house, there was a small concrete path that led into the backyard. Looking down the way, Jonathan could just make out an area of tangled vines and weeds. A garden.

A sudden breeze came up from behind him, and Jonathan shivered. His hoodie was getting awfully thin; maybe he could find a better coat in the house. He almost turned back--there was a coat closet right next to the front door, after all--when he heard a soft ‘clink’. Jonathan stopped, straining to hear the sound again. When he did, he followed it up the path a bit further and found…

A window?

Jonathan knelt down as best he could to get a better look at the smashed-in window at the base of the house. Of course. The basement. He squinted, trying to make out shapes in the darkness below. Another ‘clink’ rang out, closer this time. Jonathan decided to risk it.

“Sock?”

A louder clink accompanied by a gasp sounded from somewhere in the shadows. “Oh, Jonathan! You scared the crap outta me!”

“I’m the one who should be saying that. What’re you doing down there?”

“Uh...In general, or just right now?”

“Both.”

“In general, I’m trying to find supplies. Right now, I’m tripping over empty pop cans.”

That explained the clinking noise, anyway. Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Come over to the window, man. I can’t see shit down there.”

He could make out the sound of shuffling, a brief pause, then footsteps getting closer. Sock’s face appeared just below the windowsill. “Wassup?”

“I was wondering where you were going every afternoon. How the hell did you get down there?”

“Through the window.”

“...Are you the one who broke it?”

“...Yes.”

“Sock!”

“What? No one’s gonna care!” Sock huffed, folding his arms over his chest defensively. He bounced up and down, and Jonathan could see now that he was standing on top of a table. The drop down to the floor was bigger than he thought, then.

“Why didn’t you just use the door?”

“I couldn’t find it! I still can’t find it!” 

“Sock, why would someone build a basement without a door?”

“I dunno, but they did!”

“Why didn’t you take a candle down there? It’s pitch black!”

“I did bring a candle. See? It’s over there.” Sock pointed away into the darkness, and Jonathan shook his head in exasperation. 

“No, I can’t. How big is this thing, anyway?”

“Bigger than the house, actually. Well, the first floor, anyway.” Sock shrugged. “No one’s gotten down here yet, but I haven’t found much that’s useful.”

“What did you find?”

“Lots of Christmas decorations, mostly. And the recycling pile.” 

Jonathan heaved a sigh and sat down on the ground, taking the weight off his knee. “Get up here. We’re finding the door.”

“Why?”

“So I can get down there and help you, that’s why!” Jonathan snapped. He stood up quickly and backed away from the window. Sock’s head appeared above the frame, hauling himself up and scooting out onto the sidewalk.

“Are you sure it’s not inside?” Jonathan reached down and held out his hand. Sock stared at it for a few seconds too long before grabbing it. His palms were cool and dry, fingers covered in calluses from activities Jonathan didn’t want to ponder. He pulled Sock up abruptly.

“No, it’s not. I’ve checked every closet. I’ve even checked for closets inside of closets.”

“It must be outside, then. Come on.” He set off down the path, not noticing he was still holding onto Sock’s hand. Sock, for his part, was turning an impressive shade of pink, half afraid to keep holding on, half unwilling to let go. 

When they got to the back of the house, the path stopped. “I haven’t come back here because...well.” Well, indeed. The grass back here was insanely tall--almost as tall as Jonathan, in some places. 

“Okay. Uh.” Jonathan stepped cautiously onto a nearby patch of grass. It flattened out and crunched under his foot--dead. Considering it was late November, he really shouldn’t have been surprised. “Just...hug the house?”

“Pff. Easy for you to say.” Sock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut it.” He tightened his grip on Sock’s hand. “Don’t let go and you won’t get lost.” As he parted the first strands of grass, he mumbled under his breath, “Probably.”

“Hey! I heard that!” Despite his protests, Sock didn’t try to resist the pull of Jonathan’s hand, and soon both of them were surrounded by grass. Almost immediately, Jonathan could understand Sock’s hesitation--once they’d entered, seeing the house became significantly more difficult. Craning his neck, he could just make out the gutters and the shingles of the roof. Problem was, every time he looked back down, he lost sight of them. Finally, after almost tripping over a brick half-buried in the dirt, he decided just to aim in the general direction of a building. Whenever he slowed, Sock collided unceremoniously with his back. 

“Oof. Why’d you stop?”

“Just repositioning.”

“That sounded oddly suggestive, ya know.”

“Be quiet, you.”

“I’m only telling the truth!”

“Ow, fuck, that was a rock.”

“Jonathan, don’t push it back in my face--plegh! Ew, that was my mouth!”

“Sorry, sorry. We’re almost--oh thank God.”

Jonathan slapped his free hand against the siding of the house, relishing the feel of peeling paint under his fingertips. Sock hurried the last few feet and crashed into him, again. This time, though, both of them just laughed.

“That wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be, actually.” Sock was pressed into Jonathan’s arm, warm against the chill autumn air.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure we almost died like, twice.”

“Oh, at least. Those darn rocks, you know.”

Jonathan laughed. “The lamest way to die during the apocalypse.” Following the side of the house, they were soon standing underneath the kitchen window. Sock pointed up to the curtains. 

“Kitchen. Aren’t the curtains ugly as hell?”

Scoffing, Jonathan gave the brown floral cloth a cursory glance. “Don’t criticize other people’s decorating decisions.”

“I think it’s justified!” Sock caught up with Jonathan so they were walking almost side-by-side. “They did such a nice job with the living room, why’d they go and mess up the kitchen?”

“Oh, you know a lot about interior decoration, then?” Up ahead, he could make out a slight rise in the ground, and he started shuffling his feet in an effort to keep from tripping.

“Ok, no, I don’t. But I know that shit brown and flowers shouldn’t go together.” The rise was directly in front of them now, and they both stopped. “Think that’s it?”

“Maybe.” Jonathan knelt down, forgetting for a moment that he and Sock were still attached. As a result, Sock got pulled down abruptly, almost ending up on his butt in the dust. “Sorry.” Hastily, Jonathan released Sock’s hand. Underneath a thin layer of dirt and weeds, he could make out a latch. “Yeah, I think this is it. Help me clear off the crap, will ya?”

Sock nodded mutely, carefully stepping around to the other side of the doors. In a matter of minutes they had cleared away the debris and dirt. Jonathan pulled on the latch. Surprisingly, it wasn’t locked. The hinges protested loudly as one door swung open. 

Stairs, leading down into the darkness. Dimly, Sock could make out the telltale scent of the aromatherapy candle.

“See? Easier than climbing through a window.” Jonathan absent-mindedly held out a hand to Sock. He took it without much hesitation, and together they started down the steps.

It didn’t take long to find the candle, along with the pile of pop cans Jonathan had heard Sock tripping through. Really, it was more than a pile--more like a hill. A hill of aluminum cans and sharp edges. “I don’t think we’re gonna find anything here.”

Sock sighed heavily. “I know, but...well, here. Let me show you.” He grabbed the candle and pulled Jonathan towards the side of the house roughly underneath the living room. Letting go of Jonathan’s hand, Sock reached out into the darkness and grabbed a door handle. Pulling roughly, the metal creaked in his hand, the door rattled, but it did not open. Locked.

“See? I wanna get back there but I can’t--” Suddenly, Sock rammed his shoulder into the door heavily. Nothing happened, apart from a particularly nasty shudder. Rubbing his shoulder, Sock shrugged. “It won’t open.”

“Wait a second. Let me have the candle.” Jonathan bent down and inspected the lock--pretty basic, an older keyhole though. Still, his idea would be worth a shot. “You said there were bobby pins in the bathroom, right?”

“Yeah.” Two days earlier, Sock had rushed into the living room holding two handfuls of hairpins and an excessive amount of excitement, and proceeded to put Jonathan’s hair into an overly elaborate updo. Jonathan had spent an hour afterwards pulling them all off his head. One had even poked him in the middle of the night. 

“Get me a few, will you?” Sock groaned dramatically, but turned back towards the stairs. 

“Follow the house!” Jonathan called after his retreating back. “I don’t want you to get lost.”

“Yes, sir,” was the response from the steps.

\------

“How the hell did you know how to do that?” Sock watched in amazement as the lock clacked open under the tension of the two bobby pins he had handed over to Jonathan. 

“Do you want a cool answer, or the real answer?” Jonathan stood up, pocketing his improvised tools. 

Smirking, Sock folded his arms across his chest. “I think I’ll take the cool answer.”

“I led a secret double life as a Robin Hood-type robber, taking hi-def TVs from the rich and dumping them on the poor.” He smiled when Sock replied with a laugh, and reached out for his hand again. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Mr. Hood.”

“That’s Mr. Combs to you, bud.” Sock’s grip on his hand tightened the slightest bit as the door creaked open. He’d accomplished his goals: get Jonathan better and gain his trust. By now, he should have been plotting his method for working Jonathan around to the Demon headquarters, come hell or high water.

He knew already that he wasn’t going to. He’d known it as soon as he offered his help on a gravel road a week ago. And he’d remembered it every time they had dinner together, sitting on their respective beds. Every time he heard a whispered ‘good night’ after he blew out the candle and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling. 

Really, everything considered, feeling the push of Jonathan’s pulse against his own fingers was only a solidification of an already-conceived notion.   
Behind the door was another set of stairs, leading upwards. The inside door, the one Sock hadn’t been able to find. At the top of the steps, Jonathan pushed open a door. 

Or, at least, he tried to. 

From the sliver of house visible, Sock could see that the door was located in the dining room, which meant that…

“Oh, it must be behind the buffet!” Sock released Jonathan’s hand as the blonde pushed harder against the door. “Hold that thought.” Rushing back down the stairs and outside, he followed the foundations back to the front. He ran through to the dining room to find that Jonathan had managed to push the large cabinet a few more inches inward. Grabbing ahold of one edge, Sock pulled while Jonathan pushed, and, after five minutes of sweat and way too many splinters, they managed to open the door. 

Slumping against the table, they both wheezed, trying to catch their breath. The sun was beginning to set outside, and Sock grabbed for the candle. Jonathan beat him to it.

“So, is it just the staircase?” Sock followed Jonathan back to the doorway, standing on tiptoes to see over the taller boy’s shoulder. The steps were made of rough concrete and lined by shelves. Most of the cans Sock saw were paint, insecticides, or oil. More pop cans. Right next to the door, though, were five cans of vegetables. Jonathan seized these immediately, carefully avoiding the patches of rust covering the sides and lids. 

“I don’t know if that’s safe.” Sock wrinkled his nose, settling back onto his feet as Jonathan turned to place the cans on the table. 

“We don’t really have much of a choice, do we?”

“Sure we do. There are still some tomatoes.”

“For how long, though? Sometimes you gotta take what you can take.” Jonathan handed one of the cans to Sock. Green beans. Sticking out his tongue, Sock searched for an expiration date. “Stop with that face. They’ll be fine if we cook ‘em.”

“You’ll have to do that.” Sock hastily pushed the can back to Jonathan. The expiration date was from when Sock had been a freshman in high school. “I can’t cook.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Never learned.”

“Fine. You still have those matches?”

\------

Dinner had been better than Sock had expected. After some serious debate, he’d given in and eaten a few spoonfuls of the beans. They’d been alright. A little stale, sure, but the fact that they were warm--heated in a pot placed over a few candles--almost made up for the taste. Jonathan still ate most of the can, but he didn’t comment on Sock’s reluctance beyond a few pointed eyerolls. 

Settling down on the armchair, Sock reached over for the candle. “Hey, wait a minute.” Pausing, he saw the silohette of Jonathan sit up on the sofa. “What are we gonna do? My knee’s pretty much better.”

“Uh. I was thinking...Well, hoping, really. That I could maybe stay with you? For a while.”

A small huff of air told Sock that Jonathan was giving one of those airy laughs he did when he was relieved. “To be honest, I was kinda hoping you would say that.”

The smile on Sock’s face was entirely involuntary; keeping it in check was too much strain on his cheek muscles. “Yay,” he squeaked. 

This time, Jonathan actually did laugh. “We can pack up whenever. Maybe leave in a couple days?”

“Sure, that sounds okay.” Not okay, not okay, said a tiny voice in Sock’s head, the voice that told him that the mercy of Mephistopheles only extended so far, that he shouldn’t test the limits. He ignored it. 

“Great.” After a second of blissful silence, Jonathan lay back down, pulling his sheets over his arms. “Well, good night.”

“Good night!” Sock leaned forward and blew out the candle, revelling in the glow of the wick as it burned out. 

Someone was hoping, wanting, seeking to be with him.

It was a nice change.


	9. Posterity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kinda late. It's Dead Week and the assignments are coming hard and fast.
> 
> On the bright side, I'm almost done :D
> 
> Thank you as always for the kudos and kind comments! They make my day ^^

The stars were so much clearer out here than in the city.

Lil folded her hands on her chest, staring up into the sky. All her life, she’d lived in the suburbs. She’d seen photos of places where you could see thousands of stars, places like Iceland or Norway. Those photos had always been dramatic--stars in huge swaths coloring the sky, mountains rising in the distance, the photographer’s tent in the foreground, a small reminder of civilization. 

It really didn’t compare to the real thing. 

Back in elementary school, her class had gone on a field trip to a planetarium. The tour guide had turned out the lights and run through a script on constellations, pointing up at the ceiling with a laser, tracing the invisible lines between stars. Supposedly, they made pictures, and the pictures had stories behind them. That night, she’d glared out her bedroom window, straining to see any stars at all, let alone pictures. Now that the stars were there, finding the constellations shouldn’t have been a problem. 

“Fuck.” She couldn’t make sense of the jumble of lights above her head. Maybe that one up there was the North Star? Didn’t that mean that one of the Dippers was nearby? 

The sound of rustling away to her left meant that her expletive had woken up Jojo. She tensed, waiting for the sharp reprimand. “What? Your period start or something?” Not as sharp this time as before. More sarcasm this time, though.

“No, that won’t be for another week or so.” Lil turned towards Jojo’s voice. “I was trying to find the constellations. You know, like Orion and Andromeda and stuff.”

“Why the fuck do you care? Just go to sleep.”

“Isn’t it a part of our culture, though? We have to remember some stuff from the old days.” Maybe those two, glimmering dimly on the right--were those part of Ursa? Wait, no, Ursa was connected to the Dippers. Shit, this was hard. 

“Lil, there are some things that are important to remember. Like swear words, and holidays.” She heard Jojo roll over, probably a signal to end the conversation. “Constellations are only useful if they help you navigate.”

Lil squinted up at the sky. No, those two weren’t part of Ursa. But they were so bright, they had to be a part of some constellation. Where was the one star, the one named after the dog...Sirius? Right? Maybe it was that really orange one. No, that could be a planet. Was Sirius even visible this time of year? She groaned. 

“Christ, how did anyone find anything up there?”

Jojo’s blanket snapped as she flipped over and sat up. “If it’s so important to you, just make up your own! Who cares what the fuck the Greeks thought? They’re all dead, anyway!” She flopped back down onto the ground, curling up into a ball. “Now let me sleep, or I swear to God I will punch your skull in.”

Sighing, Lil turned back to the skies. She knew that Jojo was mostly bark and little bite, but when she got mad (usually at the same time that she got tired) she was a force to be reckoned with. For now, probably best not to make another peep until after breakfast. 

If she took those two bright stars, and connected them to some of the dimmer stars underneath them…

She smiled to herself in the darkness. The shape in her head was kind of a misshapen upside-down ‘V’, but it could work. A bird, maybe, one that was flapping its wings. Risking Jojo’s wrath, she whispered to the void, “Now, what should I call you?”

\------

All the next morning, Sock was praying to whatever gods were left in heaven that Jonathan had forgotten his idea of burying the bodies upstairs.

As soon as they woke up, they’d begun packing. Sock, in a flash of brilliant foresight, had hidden the remainders of his jerky in a small outside pocket. The main compartment of his bag was soon being filled with the remaining cans of food from the basement, along with the bottle of painkillers and the aromatherapy candle. 

“Do we really need the candle? It’s so...bulky.”

“That’s because of the casing. But it means we can hold it without worrying about wax, right? Plus it smells like mangos!”

“...I can’t believe you think that’s a good thing.”

Sock wedged the candle down next to the cans. They’d decided earlier to split the remaining matches evenly between the three of them--Sock, Jonathan, and the backpack. If they ever managed to find another town, they’d have to take their chances and hope a drug store had more supplies. After only five days, Sock had gone through the bottom two levels of the house and extracted anything he thought could be useful. 

The problem now being that his bag was too small to hold everything. No matter how many times he rearranged things, something got left out. Flopping down onto the carpet after another failed attempt, Sock groaned up at the ceiling.

“No luck?” Jonathan was lounging on the sofa, keeping his knee elevated on Sock’s orders. Climbing the basement stairs the day before had caused some swelling--out on the road they’d have to take it slow to avoid injuring it further. 

“Noooooo….” He dragged out the vowel, stretching his arms up above his head. The sudden lack of physical activity was making him surprisingly tired. 

“Can’t we ditch anything? Anything more, I mean.” Paring down their supplies hadn’t been easy, but they’d done it. What was sitting on the floor now was bare-bones, the minimum amount Sock was comfortable carrying around. 

“I think,” Sock said, sitting up, “that the problem is the bag.”

“Need a bigger one?”

“If at all possible.”

“Or, you know,” Jonathan lowered his leg gently from the sofa and stood up, heading out to the hall closet. “I could carry a bag, too. Twice the space.”

“Fine, I guess.” He stumbled up to his feet and followed Jonathan. “You can carry the toilet paper.”

Jonathan laughed as he opened the closet. The hangers inside rattled in the sudden draft. Kneeling down, Jonathan moved aside a few pairs of shoes--brittle from disuse--and uncovered a small blue backpack. Sock reached out to pick it up. 

He physically felt his stomach drop to the floor. At the last second, he recoiled his hand from the bag. “Maybe something bigger.” 

Jonathan scoffed and plucked the backpack from the floor of the closet. “I don’t see any others, unless you’d…” He stopped speaking abruptly. He’d seen it, then. 

Sock turned around and paced back to the living room. Maybe if he just shoved things into the new bag, Jonathan would forget again. 

“Hey, you know, that reminds me…”

Too late.

“We should bury those bodies upstairs before we go.” 

Just within the boundaries of his peripheral vision, Sock could see the tote of dolls he’d found earlier in the week. On the box, the name--Andrea--was written neatly, probably by her mother. On the bag, it was more of a scrawl, made in purple marker above the main zipper, surrounded by stars and hearts in a plethora of colors. It wasn’t unlike what Sock had done to his own backpacks in school, which only made everything worse.

“Jonathan, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

\------

“Lil, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Jojo was practically stomping down the road. Lil was tempted to tell her that it wasn’t good for her ankles, especially since they were still on gravel. Instead, she gave a go at defending herself.

“Come on, it’s not terrible. We just need some paper and a pencil so we can write them down.”

Her face was suddenly assaulted with very angry blonde. “It’s a waste of time and you know it! There are more important things to worry about than making up dumb stories.”

Lil scowled. She’d never appreciated others calling her ideas ‘dumb’, even when she knew they were. Like that one time in first grade when she’d decided to jump off the top of the monkey bars, and one of her friends told her it was dumb. Of course it was, but that didn’t make her want to do it less. If anything, it made her follow through, out of spite. 

“If I can’t remember the old ones, I’m going to make up my own! Besides,” she smirked, watching Jojo’s frustration turn into confusion. “You’re the one who told me to do it, remember?” She kept walking, leaving Jojo to think back. She counted the seconds it took, along with her steps. One, two, three, four, five, six…

When she finally remembered their conversation, Jojo’s response cut through the air like a bullet fired from her mouth.

“Fuck!”

\------

“Fuck.”

Sock stood back from the bathtub, flexing his sore hands and placing the butter knife down on the vanity. Somehow--the whole argument had really been a blur of shouting and stuttering and he’d even tried crying (it hadn’t worked; the last time he’d cried had been after his mom died and he was out of practice)--Jonathan had convinced him that the bodies needed to be buried before they left the house. No, his only victory was that he’d persuaded Jonathan to take care of the two bodies in the master bedroom and leave the others to him. 

Which led to his current dilemma. This guy was glued to the bottom of the bathtub and chiseling him out was taking longer than Sock wanted. At this rate, Jonathan would come around to see how he was doing and see all of the blood. Rolling his wrist, Sock sighed. The real problem was that every time he started making headway flecks of dried blood started flying up into his face. He’d pulled his goggles down, but that just meant that they landed on his mouth instead of his eyes. 

Grabbing the knife again, he ripped open the bathroom door and stalked down the hallway to where Jonathan was working on moving the bodies out of the master bedroom. Said blonde barely looked up when Sock came crashing into the room, which only pissed him off more. Stopping short of the bed, he quickly looked over the walls until he found what he wanted: the closet.

It was only when Sock started tearing through the hangers that Jonathan finally gave up on ignoring him. The kid looked even weirder than usual--the goggles from his hat were down, covering his eyes, and the scowl on his face, along with the threatening way he held the butter knife didn’t help improve the image. Finally, Sock relaxed and pulled something off the bottom bar of the closet space.

“What’s that?” The first words spoken since they’d stormed up here and Sock had told Jonathan, in no uncertain terms, that he was not allowed to walk any further down the hallway. If Jonathan had been wondering lately, “How does a goofy kid like him wind up with the Demons?”, he had his answer in the oddly menacing lilt of Sock’s voice when he made his threats. It made him uncomfortable--a reminder that he was putting a lot of trust in a guy who’d killed people and ate them. But then again, he’d never been great at decision-making, anyway.

Sock glared in his direction, but deigned to answer his question. “Scarf hanger.” He felt over the colorful strips of fabric--scarves, apparently--and finally chose a red one. Pulling it off, he shoved the hanger back into the closet and closed the door quieter than Jonathan expected. Then he was out the door again, without so much as another word. Sighing, he turned back to his work laid out on the bed. He’d gotten the guy wrapped up in the comforter, but the woman was proving more difficult. She was still a bit...well. Sticky. 

At the other end of the hallway, Sock closed the door to the bathroom again and unfolded the scarf. If Jonathan had asked, he would’ve told him that red was his favorite color, and that was why he’d chosen this flimsy thing instead of something sturdier.

His favorite color was actually purple. The only reason he’d taken the red scarf was to cover the bits of dried blood he knew were going to cover the thing in about five minutes. Wrapping the scarf firmly over his nose and mouth, Sock bent over the edge of the bathtub and went back to work. 

Within fifteen minutes, he had extracted the body and wrapped it up in the shower curtain. Sometimes, it almost scared him how efficient he could be when disposing of bodies--waste, really. Trash. And now it would be buried trash, because Jonathan was a little shit. 

He left the razor blade in the toilet. No point in collecting evidence he’d have to explain to Jonathan. Dragging the whole package out into the hallway, he deposited it near the linen closet and headed back for the girl’s room. This one would be easier, at least. Unlike Jonathan, Sock wasn’t concerned with preserving what was left of the bodies. If something got stuck to the mattress--so what? It wasn’t like they were using it anymore, anyway.

The air inside Andrea’s room was still and stagnant. Midday light filtered through the curtains, staining the room pink. During his first inspection of the room, Sock had only caught a glimpse of the bed before backing out. Up close, he could see that her skin was sallow and dry, stretched tight across the bones of her face. Dead for a while, then. 

He didn’t waste any time in wrapping her up; didn’t even remove the pillow from underneath her head. It wouldn’t have done much good anyway. Her brains were probably soaked into it. Quickly untucking the corners of the fitted sheet, he let the elastic relax and fold the blankets naturally. From there it was a simple matter of bunching fabric over exposed limbs and making a handle.

She was light, in the way he’d found all dead children to be weightless. 

Somehow, Jonathan had managed to wrap the man up in the top sheet and the woman in the fitted. Sock didn’t want to admit it, but he was a little impressed. Just a little, though. Mostly he was still angry that they were doing this in the first place.

“So…” Jonathan glanced over at Sock, who was still in full corpse-bearing gear. “You find a shovel, I carry ‘em downstairs?”

\------

“Okay, so let me get this straight.” Jojo kicked an empty cereal box across the aisle, and it slid to a stop next to Lil’s foot. “You think that some of the stars look like a wonky bird, so you want to make up a story about how it’s the last bird of its kind.”

Lil pushed the box back, smirking. “And it flew up into the sky. Yeah, basically.”

“I swear, that’s almost as stupid as searching for your dead cat.” 

“Almost? Your opinion on this idea has improved in the last half hour.”

Jojo rolled her eyes and squashed the box with her foot. “Believe me, it hasn’t.” She turned back to the shelving unit, leaning down to study the lower shelves. “Nothing left on this one, either.”

“Shit.” Lil leaned around the end of the aisle, sniffing out the dairy section--not hard, given the smell. Nothing back there would be of use, anyway. “You wanna check the bakery, or something?”

“Might as well.” Lil’s breakfast bars had finally run out two days ago, and Jojo’s carrot supply wasn’t holding up too well, either. They needed food, but every grocery store they’d come across had been totally empty. Well, except for that bottle of fruit juice they’d found yesterday. That had been good, but also not very filling.

The walk to the back of the store was short, and as soon as they arrived Lil knew finding anything edible would be easier said than done. There were lots of empty plastic boxes and bags littering the floor, but not so much as a crumb left of their contents. Still, she hopped over the counter and waltzed into the prep area. If push came to shove, she supposed they could swallow frosting. Plenty of that left over. 

“Do you even have a name for this damn bird yet?” Jojo moved some boxes off a table, searching for a forgotten cookie or cinnamon roll.

“No.” Actually, she had an idea, but teasing Jojo was too much fun to share it. At least for now. 

“Oh, fuck you. Don’t tell me all about your dumb ideas and then not follow through.”

“Sorry, man. Maybe you should come up with a name.”

“Maybe I will.” Lil was about to make further comment when Jojo made a cry of victory. Standing up, she lofted a small cookie above her head. “Found something!”

“Cool. Split that shit in half?” Lil launched back over the counter and approached her companion. She’d learned, back when she was still with a group, that you should always phrase a request for food as a question. Never a demand. People tended to get defensive when they thought you were trying to steal from them.

“Yeah, yeah.” Splitting the brittle cookie as best she could, Jojo held out half to Lil. The pastry was gone in a few bites.

Lil licked the crumbs off her fingers, trying to ignore the stale taste lingering in the back of her throat. She hadn’t even really taken the time to notice the flavor of the cookie. Snickerdoodle, maybe?

“So if you don’t have a name, does that mean I can call your bird anything?” From the shit-eating grin on Jojo’s face, Lil knew that the best answer to this question was ‘no’. But she’d never been one for giving best answers.

“Sure. Whatever you like.” She made it obvious that she knew what Jojo wanted to do. No duping going on here, no sir.

Jojo triumphantly placed her hands on her hips. “Then I dub your dumb-ass bird ‘Fuckmunch McBirdface’. “

Crossing back over the counter, Lil laughed. “Damn, I was expecting something worse.”

“I can try again, if you want.” 

“No, it’s good. Fuckmunch McBirdface it is, then.”

“Wait.” Jojo tossed a box over the display case, narrowly missing Lil’s head. “You said you wanted to write this down, right?”

“Yeah, I was hoping to.”

“Shit. Then this is for posterity, then?”

“Uh. Sure? I guess so.” 

Sighing, Jojo kicked another box down one of the aisles. “Fuck it. Let the next generation think we were horrible people. I’m not redoing it.”

\------

Jonathan arched his back, stretching his arms high above his head. Something cracked, and he sighed in relief. Sock was laying on the grass, breathing heavily and slowly. In front of them were four very shallow, very misshapen graves. Two of them were much too shallow, and the sheets could still be seen through a thin veneer of soil. 

“Fuck it. Let the next generation think we were horrible people. I’m not redoing that.” Jonathan groaned, sitting down on the ground next to Sock. They’d spent the entire afternoon digging and dragging and tripping over rocks. His knee was flaring up again, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere this evening. Except maybe to the couch. That sounded nice. 

“Hey, Jonathan?” He turned towards Sock, who seemed to have caught his breath. They had barely spoken to each other the entire time they were digging, but the tension was cooling off. At least, he hoped so.

“What?” Carefully, he lowered himself onto his back, parallel to Sock. The sky was slowly turning pink with the light of the setting sun.

“I will forgive you for today,” Jonathan started to protest, but Sock spoke over him. “If you promise me that we will never. Do this. Again.” He punctuated each word with a small poke to Jonathan’s arm. 

Heaving another sigh, Jonathan almost rubbed a hand over his face. He caught himself just in time, remembering the dirt and worm slime covering his palms, coating the blisters he could feel rising beneath the surface of his skin. His arm flopped down onto the ground between them instead.

“Fine. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Sock heaved himself into a sitting position. “Ow, ow. That hurt.”

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight. Stay here?”

“Assuming you mean the house and not the yard, yes. Please.”

“No, I wanted to sleep out in the cold while I’m sweating like a horse.” Jonathan turned over and reached for his hoodie, which had been thrown off early in the grave-digging process. If he’d known how labor-intensive it was going to be, he’d have taken off his t-shirt, too.

“Sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, hot stuff.” Sock stumbled up to his feet and rubbed one of his shoulders. “I’m gonna need some of those painkillers tonight.”

“We shouldn’t take those if we don’t need them, you know.”

“Oh, trust me. I need them.” Sock offered a hand, and Jonathan took it. Soon, they were both limping into the house, leaving the four lumps in the earth behind. They didn’t look back.

“Should we finish the tomatoes and get some sleep?” Sock carefully bent down to take the last jar out of his backpack. It was only a quarter full; getting rid of the baggage would be a good idea. Even if they were sick and tired of swallowing squishy slices of spiced jelly every night. 

“Sounds good.” Jonathan flopped down onto the sofa. “Bring it in here, man.”

They ate in silence, too absorbed in muscular pain to make conversation. The tension had been alleviated enormously, but Jonathan could tell that he hadn’t been forgiven quite yet. 

When they finished the jar, Sock left it on the table instead of taking it back into the kitchen. He didn’t even reach for the candle or the matches. The room slowly slid into darkness, until Jonathan could barely see the outline of the chair Sock had claimed as his bed at the beginning of their stay. 

“Hey Sock?”

“Hm?”

“I’m...Sorry. For making you bury those guys.”

“I won’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. But I'll take the apology. As punishment, I’m going to make you get up and get the painkillers out of my bag.”

“Geez, man. Savage.” He hauled himself up and over to the backpack. Finding the pills didn’t take long. They both swallowed two, without water.

Settling back onto the couch, Jonathan closed his eyes and relaxed the muscles in his back. Getting up in the morning wasn’t going to be fun. But he wasn’t going to complain. Sock would probably just give him a look--’What did I tell you? And did you listen? No.’--and then he’d have to suffer in silence, anyway. Not worth it.

Out of the darkness, he heard a whisper. “Night.”

He smiled, just a little. Tension: gone. “Good night.”


	10. Judd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys! Life's been hectic. Now that it's summer, updates should be pretty regular.
> 
> Thank you as always for the kind comments and kudos :D

The next morning, they packed up their bags and left the house without a hitch. Jonathan didn’t mention the scarf that still hung around Sock’s neck; Sock didn’t comment on the dirt underneath Jonathan’s fingernails. They skipped breakfast--no need to break into the four cans of food they had left quite yet. Spread between two bags, their supplies were woefully short, and Sock quickly grew to hate the feeling of his backpack slapping against his back. 

Finding the nearest town turned out to be more difficult than either of them had guessed. By midday, they were still in the middle of nowhere. Well, not nowhere, exactly. There were some very nice overgrown fields to look at. 

Sock flopped onto his back when they finally decided to take a break. Jonathan’s knee was still a little sore, and their pace had gradually decreased as the morning wore away. “I don’t suppose you know the towns around here?”

“Nope.” Jonathan lowered himself carefully onto the grass, tucking his uninjured leg underneath him. “But this is weird. No other houses out here, either.”

“At this point, I’m willing to stop in another house.” Rolling onto his side, Sock looked up into Jonathan’s face. “Even though I’m pretty sure a grocery store would be better.”

“Why don’t we stop at the next place we see, then?” Jonathan tilted his head to the side, mimicking Sock’s position. 

“Anything to weigh down my bag. And no, I never thought I’d say that.” 

“Don’t you have...I don’t know, supplies? In your bag.” 

Sock raised an eyebrow at that. Supplies? Of course he had supplies--he was stuck carrying the food, plus the can opener, and the candle, and the matches and. Oh. Did he mean--?

“Like. Demon supplies?” He ventured the guess, unsure if he wanted to be right.

“Yeah. They didn’t send you out here without...stuff. Right?” Nope, he hadn’t wanted to be right. Trying to convince Jonathan to come back with him was something he was willing to do. Showing off his cannibalistic habits wasn’t. 

“Uh, no. I have some…” Sock didn’t try to finish the sentence. The unspoken words hung in the air--meat, jerky, food--until Jonathan awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“Look, I’m not saying I want to see it, I just needed to know if it was there.” 

“What, to eat? Aww, I might make a Demon out of you yet.”

“No! Just...Like, it’s good to know what we’ve got, even if I don’t like it.”

“Whoa there, Jon. Things aren’t great right now, but they’re not that desperate.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Jonathan extended a hand to Sock’s head, shoving his hat backwards. More of his copper hair made to escape the confines, and Sock quickly reached up to pull it back down. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his hair (although at one time had had been--elementary kids were vicious), but Jonathan certainly didn’t need to see it just now. And what if he got grass in it?

Standing back up, Sock brushed off the seat of his pants before reaching down to help Jonathan. He took the outstretched hand with a smirk. Sock had barely any time to register that the grip was too soft for a pull-up, when it suddenly hardened and he abruptly found himself on top of Jonathan. Who was laughing entirely too hard. 

Jonathan’s chest was more solid than Sock thought--maybe the kid wasn’t starving, after all. Still skinny though; if he hadn’t been wearing the hoodie he might’ve been able to feel the ridges of ribs moving beneath skin. Hell, yesterday he’d had to make a conscious effort not to look at Jonathan every time he lifted up a goddamn shovel, because then his shirt would kind of ride up and they were supposed to be mad at each other and god where was he supposed to put his hands? Not on the chest, not on the chest. They landed awkwardly on the grass beside Jonathan’s head. 

Sock tried to sit up, only to be pulled back down. “Okay, Jonathan. Not. Funny.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s pretty funny.” The blush spreading up Sock’s ears only made Jonathan giggle harder. Fortunately for Sock, the giggle fit gave him the opportunity to slip off Jonathan’s torso and kind of get up onto his knees.

“I will kick you in the knee again, so help me…” Struggling back to his feet, Sock stumbled back a few feet. Finally, the laughs from the ground subsided, and Jonathan sighed, extending his hand again for help.

Hmph’ing dramatically, Sock turned up his nose and stomped back to the road. To his credit, he made it almost three steps before breaking down in laughter. The squawk of indignation coming from behind didn’t help his case. 

“Fine, fine. Crybaby.” Sock helped Jonathan up off the ground, and the two turned back to the road. Off in the distance, clouds were gathering--another storm, judging from the dark color. But there was something else, too. Sock squinted a little, then pointed out in front of them.

“Are those buildings?”

\------

The town of Judd was not so much a ‘town’ as a ‘blip in the road’, the kind of hamlet you see on long roadtrips when your parents decide to take the Scenic Route instead of the Interstate. The main drag is badly paved, the paint worn down to mere shadows on the road. Speed limits drop twenty feet outside of town, but no one actually pays attention to it, except state troopers on very slow days. The green sign states a name that you won’t remember, above the number that you will: Judd, Population: 146. As you drive through, you wonder how they got the number up so high when all there seems to be are two houses, a bar, a gas station, and a badly maintained RV. 

Any day before the apocalypse, a town like Judd would have been considered backwater hell, not an oasis. 

Not that the place was terribly pristine. The ravages of the end of the world had reached even the 146 people of Judd. None of the houses looked occupied; one of them was partially burned. The windows of the bar were broken, and very few of the doors were still on their hinges. When the two boys approached the town, passing the RV, Sock carefully steered them away--the smell of a decaying corpse was faintly tangible. But other than one dead body, Judd was deserted. 

In short: paradise.

“What do you think? I’d say the gas station’s our best bet.” Sock was practically skipping; had been for the last five minutes. Jonathan rolled his eyes, catching a glimpse of the approaching clouds.

“Whatever we do, we better do it fast. Rain’s coming.”

Sock stopped short of the gas station door, hand on the push bar. “Say, you know what day it is?”

“What? The day you stop asking rhetorical questions?”

Laughing, Sock pushed the door open. The bell above the jamb, an ancient bronze thing with red strings, jangled unpleasantly. “No, silly. It’s Thanksgiving today. Or maybe yesterday.”

Jonathan caught the door and followed Sock into the station. The tiles were broken apart, and he kicked a piece across the store. “Really? Huh. Wanna celebrate?”

“Sure!” Swinging his bag down from his shoulder, Sock readjusted his hat and turned towards the nearest product rack. “Let’s see, what do we have here?” He picked up a plastic package of snack cakes. “You like those Swiss Roll things? ‘Cuz they have ‘em in spades.”

“That’s fine, but let’s find something else that’s not entirely sugar, maybe?” Jonathan placed his smaller bag on the floor next to Sock’s. “Why didn’t they take more food? I thought this place would be almost empty.”

“Well,” Sock dumped an armful of cakes onto the ground, “if these people were anything like my family, they probably skipped town as soon as they heard Ramot was in the area.”

“Oh, you guys were the jumpy ones?” Jonathan peeked over the shelves at the top of Sock’s head. “You go out to the country with the rest of them?”

“Yep.” Sock raised a bag of chips so Jonathan could see them. “Any objections to this flavor, Hot Stuff?”

“No.” He was about to bend down and look at some soup cans on a bottom shelf, but came back up to glare over the rack. “And don’t call me ‘Hot Stuff’.”

“You’re no fun. I’ve never really liked barbeque chips, myself. But what the hell? It’s a holiday.”

“No, I’m not any fun. Don’t make up nicknames for people without asking. And barbeque is the best. Something’s wrong with you.”

From the other side of the shelves, Sock shouted in victory. The barbeque chips came flying at Jonathan’s head, and he barely caught them, fumbling a bit. “Take them, then. I just found sour cream and onion.”

Jonathan tossed the chips to the growing pile of food. “You little turd.”

“Ah, ah, Jonathan. Don’t give people nicknames without asking first.”

“That wasn’t a nickname. That was a fact.” Picking up a few cans of soup, Jonathan rolled them over to his bag. Even though they looked a little suspicious, there was nothing a little heat couldn’t fix. Assuming they could find a source of heat. Come to think of it, they didn’t have a pot anymore, did they?

“Oh hey. Here’s the drinks.” Jonathan heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening, followed by the sour smell of bad milk. “You want pop or water? I wouldn’t take a bet on the juice.”

“Water, please. And close that door, it stinks.” Once again, product was flung at his head. This time, he was slightly more prepared to receive it. The door slapped shut again, followed by the approaching sound of Sock’s feet.

“There was milk in the door next to the water. None of the fridges are on anymore, of course.” Sock knelt down next to Jonathan. “Why are we staring intently at soup?”

“I’m trying to think of a way I can get you to eat it.” Jonathan picked up another can, turning it so he could read the expiration date. 

“What? I like tomato.” Sock caught sight of the date printed in faded numbers across the label. “Oh. That might be a problem.”

Jonathan smirked and pushed the can into Sock’s hands. “How long do you think that’s been here?”

Gently, Sock placed the can back on the shelf, patting the top once. “Probably since this place opened. Let’s leave that one alone.”

“Well, I was thinking. Maybe there’s a pan somewhere we could use, or just some kind of dish or--”

Two fingers suddenly covered Jonathan’s lips, and he startled. “Shoosh.” Sock smiled, tapped his hand once, and turned back to the other shelves. There, he started rummaging through some non-food items--tiny propane tanks, a few keychains, a pocket knife that he immediately put away in his jeans. Surprisingly, there was a pot, up on top, and Sock blew the dust out of the bowl. 

Meanwhile, Jonathan was still crouched on the floor of aisle two, staring into the empty space where Sock had been sitting moments ago. He was starting to get very warm, especially in the region of his neck. If it hadn’t been late November, he might’ve blamed it on the weather. Outside, the clouds moved in over the town of Judd and began releasing droplets. The sound of water hitting the window panes jolted Jonathan out of his reverie. He could hear Sock shuffling around behind him.

Standing up too fast, Jonathan stumbled over to his bag and busied himself reading the labels of the cans of soup he’d selected earlier. Do not add water, microwave covered for two minutes stirring once and why were they touching each other so much?

Thinking back, Jonathan couldn’t ever recall being a very physical person (unlike his mother, who had hugged him goodnight since he was a baby). Maybe this was an effect of the apocalypse--knowing that the world had been fucked over, that humanity was on the downgrade. It could probably explain why he’d been so grabby lately. If his school counselor could see him now, she’d be drooling all over the situation. He could practically hear her nasally voice in his head: “Well obviously Jonathan, you’re suffering from a lack of contact with your peers, resulting in a need of physical confirmation of your friend’s presence, and that’s why you keep holding his hand and pulling him down on top of you and blushing your face off when he touches your lips.”

But even when she was alive, that counselor was full of shit. Wasn’t any better in Jonathan’s head. 

Unfortunately, he knew what having a crush felt like. Once, in middle school, he’d pined over this girl who sat across the room from him in science. He’d never spoken a word to her, turned beet red whenever she looked his way. Now was like then, only worse. Because now, he didn’t have the advantage of twenty-five feet of lab desks to use as cover. 

He didn’t realize Sock had come back over to their bags until a hand flashed in the space between his face and the can of soup. Jerking back, Jonathan nearly smacked his head into Sock’s chin. Sock had been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder and probably trying to get his attention. Now that he had it, Jonathan could feel one of Sock’s hands gently touch his hair, pushing his head down and away from harm.

“Whoa, there. A little jumpy today.” 

“Well then, stop sneaking up on me.” Jonathan shoved the can of soup up into Sock’s unoccupied hand. “What do you think of this?”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I said your name like, three times. You were spacing out.” Sock turned the can over to the expiration date. “Not as bad. I’d be more willing to eat this one. It doesn’t look like it knew my grandmother on a personal level.”

“Good, because I’m eating it. Where’s the can opener?” Jonathan started rummaging through his bag, ducking his face from Sock’s view so he couldn’t see the splotches of blush still staining his cheeks. 

“You have it. And hey!” Sock kicked something to Jonathan’s left. “I found something we can use to cook.”

Jonathan poked the pot skeptically. “Now this looks like it knew my grandmother personally.” It wasn’t rusted or damaged, but it was definitely old-fashioned. There wasn’t a label or a barcode anywhere, and Jonathan briefly wondered how the cashier was supposed to know how much it cost. Did they just have it memorized?

“It’ll do. I found more matches too.” Sock lifted a box of strike matches out of his coat pocket. “So.” He finally sat down next to Jonathan. “Shall we get this party started?”

\------

“This is the best party ever.” Sock flopped onto his back, still holding half a cake in his hand. Outside, the rain was pounding against the window. It had gotten dark long ago, and the glow of the candle illuminated the corner where they’d decided to spend the night.

“You’re only saying that because there’s food.” Sitting a little ways away, Jonathan was stirring the soup with a spoon stolen from the last house. “Which is good, but it’s not spectacular.” 

“Well, you’re just mad that I took the last carrot cake.” Sock held up the half-cake victoriously before stuffing it into his mouth. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t like cake that much. Go ahead and eat all of it, if you want.” Cooking the soup had been about as much of a hassle as Jonathan expected. He was currently holding the pot an inch above a second candle Sock had dug out of the back of a shelf. He’d been at it for almost half an hour, and only now could he detect any change in temperature in the soup. His wrist was getting tired. 

“There’s no way anybody doesn’t like cake. It is literally not possible.” Sitting back up, Sock leaned forward and inspected the contents of the pot. “How’s it going?”

“About as well as it was the last time you asked.” He stopped stirring and held up the spoon. “Taste check.”

Grabbing the stem of the spoon near Jonathan’s fingers, Sock slid the utensil into his mouth. This was the third time he’d done this, and with his eyes closed he didn’t see Jonathan studying the tug of the metal on his lips as he pulled back. Licking his lips a bit, Sock opened his eyes. Jonathan retracted his hand hastily.

“Better than the first time. It’s getting warmer.” Sock scooted closer to Jonathan. “I can stir for a while, if you want. Your hand’s shaking.”

“I’m fine.” Jonathan felt pressure on his shoulder; Sock was leaning up against his side. Too close, but not close enough. He resisted the urge to wrap an arm around Sock’s shoulders by reasoning that he was holding a pot of semi-warm soup. Better not to spill it everywhere just because he wanted to flirt. 

Speaking of, he’d have to figure out how to do that. Flirt, that is. 

“We could probably eat it now, if you’re hungry.” A hand entered Jonathan’s immediate range of vision, and it gently covered the fingers that were holding the pot. He swallowed, mouth a little dry. 

“I’ve been eating chips.” Still, Jonathan let Sock’s hand help him retract the pot from the tiny flame of the candle and set it down on the floor. There was no need to worry about damaging the tile; the pot was cool enough to touch without burning fingers. “Fine. You want another spoon?”

Sock paused. Jonathan wouldn’t have been able to tell, if their hands hadn’t been touching. Then, almost as quickly, he resumed motion. “No, we can use the same one.” Smiling, he reached for the spoon in Jonathan’s opposite hand. “Open up, Hot Stuff.”

\------

It was, by far, the most intimate thing Sock had ever done in his entire life. At first, it had been kind of fun--sharing a spoon with Jonathan. He’d really planned for it to be silly, like pushing cake into your newly-wed spouse’s mouth at the reception. They’d tried every trick in the book on each other, giggling all the while (until Jonathan ended up with soup in his nose, anyway). But as they had approached the end of the pot, things had quieted down. Once, entirely on accident, Sock had maintained eye contact with Jonathan all the way through a spoonful. It had been awkward and embarrassing and kinda fucking hot. 

When the soup was done, they packed up the remnants of the chips and cakes, packing them into bags for breakfast. Jonathan blew out the cooking candle while Sock pulled the stolen sheets out of his backpack. He’d decided to keep the Barbie sheets, just because Jonathan had rolled his eyes and scoffed when he chose them. Meanwhile, he tossed a blanket to Jonathan. 

They bedded down for the night in relative silence, both pretending to listen to the pattering of the rain outside. The storm would pass over by morning, but neither of them had brought up the possibility of leaving the gas station yet. Sock had a feeling it wouldn’t come up for another few days. 

Laying back, Sock reached out and grabbed the candle. He waited for Jonathan to settle onto the floor before he drew in a short breath and blew out the flame.

He’d almost drifted off when he heard a whisper, barely audible above the rain. “Good night.”

Rolling over to face the sound, he smiled. “Night, Hot Stuff.”


	11. Orange and Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have an excuse for the tardiness on this one. It's summer and I'm lazy :p
> 
> Thank you, as always, for the kind comments and kudos!!!

“You’d think that since the world ended, finding a working pen would be easier.”

“Make sure you’re looking for a ballpoint and not one of those wimpy gel pens, Jojo.” Lil tossed another few notebooks aside, not even wincing as they hit the floor. She reached further back into the shelf, straining to find a dry sheet of paper. 

“I know that! Jeez, I’m not stupid.” Jojo’s voice rang emptily over the aisles separating the two girls. They’d ducked into an office supply store for the night, mostly because Lil was adamant about writing down the constellation ideas. The only reason Jojo had (begrudgingly) agreed was because she’d found the snack aisle, still relatively intact after months of abandonment, and stocked to the nines. 

Unfortunately, it was starting to look like that was the only section of the store left unharmed. They’d known as soon as they opened the doors that the store had suffered too much damage to really be safe--the strong draft and musty smell was evidence of that. At one end of the sales floor, the ceiling had caved in over the office chairs and desks, leaving a mess of concrete and drywall, spotted with twisted metal and splinters of cheap plywood.

Because of the hole, the store hadn’t done too well in the preservation department. Lil took out another two notebooks and immediately dropped them onto the floor. Every single notepad, sketchbook, construction paper packet, and planner she had found so far had been coated in a thin layer of mold. Even the stuff at the very back of the shelves--things she would’ve expected to sustain the least damage--had been unusable. She wiped her hands on her pants and turned back to survey the damage. The entire floor was covered in smelly, damp paper products. 

Off in aisle seven--two down the way from notebooks--Jojo was struggling to find a writing utensil they could use. Evidently, the floors next to the pencils and markers had been waterlogged to the point where even Jojo didn’t want to risk walking on them. Ergo, she was stuck in one corner of the aisle, testing every pen in every package until she found one that didn’t die within seconds of being uncapped. Lil stopped at the end of the aisle to find Jojo toeing the line between ‘safe’ linoleum and ‘fuck that shit I’m not walking there’ linoleum. Like aisle five, the floor was covered with disposed product.

“Nothing?” Lil smirked when Jojo jumped a little, almost losing her balance and tripping over onto the damaged tiles. After she recovered, she glared in Lil’s direction, tossing a plastic package of pens at her face.

“Nothing. Can we eat now?” Jojo had wanted to eat as soon as they found the food, but Lil had insisted on exploring first. And by explore, she meant find something--anything--to write on and with. At this point, she would be fine scribbling down an entire mythology on Post-It notes in colored pencil. Sighing, Lil nodded. Her stomach had been rumbling for the last hour and a half. Time to put her hunger out of its misery. 

Jojo practically ran down to the snack aisle, number eleven. The signs hanging from the ceiling had come down long ago, the bolts keeping them in place having rusted out. They hadn’t done much damage in their fall from above, which surprised Lil more than it should have. She’d always thought they were heavier than they looked. As she turned into aisle eleven, a bag of chips came flying at her face. She didn’t move fast enough to catch it, and it smacked her in the nose before she managed to grab the plastic. 

Lil scowled, ripping open the bag and sullenly munching on a chip as Jojo finished laughing her ass off. The bag she was holding--Doritos, maybe?--was part of a large sack which sat ripped open in the middle of the aisle. Apparently, even when starving, Jojo felt the right to be picky about food--she’d thrown out the Fritos entirely, pushing them almost underneath the shelving unit. 

“You got something against plain corn chips or something?” Lil tilted her head to stare pointedly at the yellow bags. Jojo barely turned around to see what she was referring to. Instead, she shrugged and dumped some crumbs into her mouth.

“I like ‘em just fine. Just don’t want them right now.” She stooped to seize another serving, then abruptly turned back. “Your period’s starting soon, right?”

Rolling her eyes, Lil sank down to sit on the cold floor. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Okay, then. Guess you’re not interested in the tampons down the way, then.”

Leaping up to her feet, tripping, and regaining her balance, Lil scrambled down to where Jojo was calmly pointing. And indeed, there on the shelf were five or six boxes of tampons.“Holy fuck!” Lil grabbed one and held it close to her chest. She swore she could feel tears coming to her eyes. “I love you, tampons. I love you so much.” The cardboard box slowly collapsed under the weight of her arms. “Even if your packaging is cheap as shit.”

“You’re welcome.” Jojo plopped down in the middle of the aisle, opening up her backpack and stuffing food into it. 

“Are we packing up already?” Lil glanced towards the windows at the other end of the store. It was starting to get dark out, the last traces of sunlight fading into dusk. 

“Yes, I want to go for a walk out in the dark when I can’t see two feet in front of my face. No, I’m thinking ahead, you moron.” 

Lil tiptoed up to Jojo’s shoulder. “Thinking ahead by putting all the Fritos at the bottom of the bag, I see.”

“Shut up.” Apparently satisfied with her work, Jojo zipped the backpack up halfway and slid it to one side of the aisle. “Are you gonna sit down and eat or what?”

Promptly sliding down to the floor, Lil set the tampons down and gave them a loving pat. They ate in silence, the only sounds in the department store being the crunch of chip and the steady drip of a leaking ceiling tile, somewhere in the distance. Once, very briefly, Lil thought she heard a bird chirping up in the rafters. She crumpled up the bag and started twisting it in her hands. 

Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. Jojo snapped her head up, broken out of a half-dozing state brought on by food and excessive quiet. Lil smiled, barely, before speaking. “Do you ever think about how much things have changed?”

“Every damn day.” Sighing, Jojo stretched her arms above her head. “It’s kinda hard not to, what with all the death and destruction and, I don’t know, almost starving.”

“No, I mean, like. There used to be a lot of animals, besides humans.” Lil drew her knees to her chest, still clutching the chip bag. “I miss them, is all.”

“What’s to miss?” Seeing the scandalized look Lil was sending her way, Jojo quickly backtracked. “I mean, I don’t miss being woken up at four in the morning just because Tweety decided to scream his head off. That kind of thing.”

Lil nodded in understanding. “But there used to be so much life.” She leaned her cheek against one of her knees. It was boney, almost painful to touch. She’d lost so much weight since leaving the city. “Ramot just completely screwed us over.”

“It screwed itself over, too, if that makes you feel better.” Jojo slid across the tiles to sit next to Lil, awkwardly folding her arms across her chest. “It doesn’t have many hosts left to choose from, so it’ll die out eventually.”

“You told me that Providence has a cure.” Turning to look at Jojo’s face, Lil was worried to see a flicker of something--doubt? Fear?--cross her eyes. “What?”

“Um.” Jojo unfolded her arms, searched for a new position, gave up, and refolded them. She didn’t look at Lil. “It’s kind of a cure. But it’s not like a vaccine or anything.”

“Okay.” Lil wasn’t sure why this was such a big deal. Although, to be fair, she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting in the word ‘cure’ in the first place.

“The thing is, Ramot is so potent that you can’t get an inactive version of the virus. It’s impossible.” Jojo swallowed heavily, finally turning her head a bit to glance over at Lil. “The only thing you can work with is the full thing.”

“So…” Lil motioned for Jojo to go on, feeling that there was a point to be made somewhere in this conversation. It had to explain that worry. She had to know.

“So a person actually has to get Ramot before Providence can work with them.” Jojo shrugged, sheepishly. “I’ve never actually had Ramot. I’ve seen people who had it.” 

“And you didn’t get infected?” Raising her head from her knee, Lil scrutinized Jojo’s skin in the dying light. No blemishes, except for a few freckles and moles on her forearms. Nothing like the sores and boils she’d heard of as characteristics of Ramot. Not even a scar. 

“No. Providence had already cured them. I’m not sure how she does it.” Jojo hunched over her arms, quietly knocking the toes of her shoes together. “Sorry. It’s kind of lame.”

Thinking back, Lil remembered the raw fear of being pushed out the door in the middle of the night, the sobbing cries and screams of those girls who had saved her life, if not her mother’s. She exhaled, a shaking breath caught between normal respiration and tears. “It’s better than nothing, Jojo. You should be proud to know her.” 

Sitting up slowly, Jojo straightened her back, arching into a semi-stretch. “I am.” Leaning over Lil’s lap, she grabbed for her bag, pulling it closer. “What I’m not proud of is not being able to find one fucking pen that still works in an entire fucking store. You got any ideas, smartass?”

“Smartass?” Giggling, Lil stretched her legs out in front of her. “Where’d that come from?” 

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time.” Rummaging deep into a side pocket, Jojo pulled out a small candle and a box of strike matches. Lighting one, she poked at the wick. “Personally, I vote pencils. They might not last, but at least I don’t have to waste an entire fucking hour trying to find one that works.”

“Hm.” Lil tapped her foot against the linoleum. Like most other places that were tiled, the material was starting to crack and curl from disrepair and humidity. What had been in the other aisles? Besides more mold, of course. Binders, folders, staplers, and…

Grabbing for the candle, Lil rose up onto her knees. “I think I’ve got a better idea.”

\------

“So your bright idea was crayons? Dumbass.”

“What happened to ‘smartass’?”

“You don’t deserve it anymore.”

“Fine, fine. What color should we use?”

“Orange.”

“...Why orange?”

“Because it’s my favorite.”

“Oh my God. Well, why not blue, or something? It’s calming!”

“Look, if you’re gonna be so picky about it, why not just take one of every color?”

“...Oh no.”

“What?”

“That means I have to pick one shade of green.”

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Because it’s my favorite.”

“Fuck you and your dumb face. Gimme that box.”

\------

“So,” Lil evened out the stack of crayons in her hand. “Now that we have one of every color, plus two extra to make up for white and yellow, what’re we gonna write on?”

“Make that three extra.” Jojo lifted up another crayon from the discard pile strewn on the floor.

“Hell no. If you get another orange, I get another green.”

“Fine, crybaby. Take this one.” Jojo tossed two more crayons to Lil. “And you seriously didn’t think about what to use as paper?”

“Well, I had an idea, but it’s kind of.” Lil cleared her throat a bit. “Awkward.”

“What?” Jojo looked up suspiciously from her work of clearing out a spot to sit in, amongst fragments of wrappers and broken wax. 

“Did you ever use one of those giant coloring pages?” Lil got her answer from the sheer confusion on Jojo’s face. “Right. Well, uh, they’re these big pages for coloring, but they’re blank on one side.”

“You want to write a mythology in crayon on the back of children’s coloring pages?” Shrugging, Lil silently cursed at how stupid this all sounded being said out loud. 

“Gotta start somewhere. How’s Disney Princesses sound? Or do you have another preference?” Lil restacked the crayons and got back up. They were in aisle two, almost on top of the damage done by the caved-in ceiling. The smell of mold and wet drywall was close to overwhelming, and she resisted the urge to cover her nose. 

“How do you know they won’t be all gross and moldy like those notebooks from earlier?” Jojo rose to her feet, following close behind Lil. The light from the candle was weak, reflecting off the gloss of water covering this part of the store. 

“Usually, they’re wrapped in plastic. Harder for mold to get in. I hope.” Near the end of the aisle, inches above a puddle of murky water, was a display of the coloring books. She pulled one out, smirking at the pink border and smiling faces of familiar cartoon characters. 

“Those are kinda big, aren’t they?” Jojo came up beside her and peeked over her shoulder. “How’re we gonna carry them?”

“Cut them in half, probably.” Lil handed the package over to Jojo, who quirked an eyebrow at the cover, then rolled her eyes and put it under her arm.

“This better damn well be worth it, or I am going to kill you in the morning.”

“What? Not much of a night owl, Jojo?” She flipped through the other books, sliding one with a grey border and drawings of superheroes on the cover. Again, she forked it over to Jojo.

“I want to sleep. It’s not a crime.” Slapping the second book against the first, she turned on her heel, prepared to walk away, and just as quickly spun back. “I need the candle.”

“That you do.” Getting to her feet, Lil led the way back to the snack aisle. Once there, she waited for Jojo to stash the books under their bags, stuff the crayons into a side pocket, get out her blanket, and curl up on the floor. Unfolding her own blanket--the one that had been shoved into her hands by a frantic girl not five years older than herself--she lay down on the floor and tried to ignore the cold seeping through the back of her jacket.

\------

“I’m cold.” 

Lil groaned, turning over to glare in Jojo’s general direction. “So get that extra blanket you found yesterday, sheesh. Stop complaining.”

“Bitch, I am using that blanket. I’m still cold.” Rustling cloth indicated Jojo was trying to cocoon herself further. 

“You’re not gonna go to sleep until you’re warm, are you?” Lil rubbed a hand over her eyes, slowly lowering it so she could look up towards the black blankness of the ceiling. If it wasn’t so damn cold outside, she’d rather be there, looking at the stars instead of nothingness.

“You’re goddamn right.” The rustling stopped, and Jojo sighed. “It’s only gonna get worse from now on, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“We better find your dumb cat soon, or I’m going to freeze to death.”

“Haven’t you ever slept through a cold night before? You just need to curl up and wait.” 

Silence reigned for a minute, then an audible sigh cut through the quiet. “How the fuck do penguins do this?”

“Penguins survive through blizzards, not mildly chilly nights.” Lil pulled her own blanket closer around her shoulders, turning onto her side and curling into the fetal position. All this talk of penguins and cold and freezing wasn’t helping her warm up.

“Don’t they huddle together or some shit? I think I saw it in a documentary once.” A loud scuffing noise sounded behind Lil’s back, and she looked over her shoulder to find the dim outline of Jojo scooting closer. 

“What’re you doing?” Flipping to face away from Lil, Jojo rearranged her cocoon and settled down. Their backs barely touched, but the warmth bleeding through the layers of fabric felt nice. Comforting, almost.

“I’m huddling against you for warmth. Like a fucking penguin.” Again, silence. Then, “Do you think penguins are still alive?”

Lil breathed out a laugh, relaxing into the softness of her blanket. “I certainly hope so.”

\------

The morning came much too early, sunlight pouring in through the windows and ceiling and hitting Lil directly in the eyes. She groaned, tried to flip over and hide her face from the new day, and ran into an obstacle.

Opening her eyes, still stinging from sleep, she found Jojo, wrapped tightly in two blankets, had, sometime during the night, turned over to face Lil’s back. She was breathing softly and deeply, face calm in the throes of sleep. 

Settling back into her original position, Lil yanked the covers over her eyes, doing her best to block the light. 

Better not to acknowledge this, unless she only wanted to eat Fritos for the next week. 

\------

_Once upon a time, the World came to an end._

_A young bird lived with his family, his friends, and his enemies. They all lived in a group of trees, beyond every road, high in the mountains. The young bird’s name was Fuckmunch McBirdface (don’t ask, please). He lived in a nest with his mother and father, his sisters and brothers. He loved and was loved by everyone he met, all but one. His enemy’s name was Napoleon, and he was unkind and unmoving. Although they never fought, they never got along, either._

_One day, though, all the birds in the trees began to die. The disease that killed them was strong and terrible, a menace to behold. Slowly, all of Fuckmunch’s loved ones began to die. First, his brothers, then his sisters, his father, his mother, his friends. As each one suffered, he cried, wondering--hoping--that he would be next. He did not want to live in a world without them. But he did not want to die. Not like this._

_When at last the disease left his nest empty, save the blood of his family, he looked out across the trees, across the mountains, into the sky. He wondered if he was alone, the last of his kind, for he could hear no calls coming from across the forest. Nothing stirred but him._

_Until, at last, he caught sight of a feather moving not from wind but from will. Eager to speak to another survivor, Fuckmunch flew across the trees. However, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find that the other bird was none other than Napoleon. In despair, he began to cry again._

_“Why are you the only one who has survived?” He asked._

_“I might ask you the same thing.” Napoleon answered._

_“What will we do now? Everyone I’ve ever loved has died before my eyes. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be alone.”_

_“You aren't alone. We're together, now. I, too, have seen my family slaughtered by an unseen hand, and I too have wept over their corpses.”_

_“If we stay here, we will meet the same fate.” Fuckmunch studied the mountains in the distance, the places where he used to hunt and play and fly with the wind to his back. He didn’t want to leave, but he knew he could not stay and live._

_“Then we must go,” Napoleon said, “We must go far away. As far as we can, we must fly.”_

_“We could go to the other side of the World and still not be safe,” Fuckmunch replied. “The World is no longer kind to us. It will kill us, one way or another.”_

_“Then we must not live in the World anymore.” Napoleon looked up to the skies. “We must go beyond the World. Perhaps the Skies will be kinder.”_

_So the two took off, never looking back at the rotting flesh of their home. Their eyes saw only the Skies, their wings felt only the Winds, they smelled only the thin air of the mountains. Soon, they began to tire. They flew up, up, up, over the top of the tallest mountain, and kept going._

_“Do not stop!” They called to each other. “If you stop, you will fall back to the World below and die in pain! Do not stop!”_

_When at last they reached the end of air, Fuckmunch and Napoleon felt their bones begin to crack. They could not breathe, could not feel. They dared not look down below, fearing the dizzying heights they had reached. Still, they did not stop. Beating against nothingness, their wings became light, tiny pinpricks of light in the Skies, suns in their own right._

_Still in fear they fly, two birds, the last of their kind, side by side, into the void _.__


	12. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, you guys leave awesome comments and I love you!! Thanks for the comments and kudos, as always :D
> 
> Second the only reason this got done so fast is because I'm on a four day weekend from my job :p

Sock’s first thought, after waking up, was that he really needed to pee.

He rolled over, trying to sit up, and found himself securely trapped within his sheets. Silently, he cursed Barbie’s smiling face as he untangled the fabric wrapped around his legs and stumbled up to his feet. Jonathan was still soundly asleep, laying on his stomach with one side of his face pressed awkwardly to the floor. Kicking the sheets back into a pile, Sock tiptoed over to the door, wincing when the bell above the jamb clanged loudly.

Outside, the air was cold and damp. There were still clouds hanging overhead, sending down a continuous drizzle of frigid water. Sock hugged his arms to his chest and quickly made his way to the back side of the building, out of view of the road and the windows. If, by chance, Jonathan did wake up in the five minutes it took Sock to relieve himself, he’d rather not be caught with his pants down.

The transition from toilets to trees had happened shortly after Sock and his parents left the farm, but he’d never considered the difficulty his mother must’ve had until after he’d joined the Demons and heard Mara’s continuous stream of complaints. Now, unzipping his pants, he thanked whatever god was in heaven that he’d been born a boy with the ability to point-and-shoot.

His head nodded forward in exhaustion, and he forced it back up. Usually he didn’t have to pee this early in the morning, and he decided, after a moment’s thought, to blame it all on Jonathan. Sock started rolling his shoulder, loosening up his muscles and muttering, “Stupid Jonathan and his stupid soup and feeding it to me with his stupid sexy face…” And the intense feeling of eye contact that had haunted his dreams, all the way into the early morning. He shuddered just remembering it. How he’d managed not to have a heart attack during the actual event, he still didn’t know.

Around this time he realized he’d gotten done relieving himself some time ago and whoops.

His penis hadn’t been this stiff when he’d left the store.

Narrowly resisting the urge to slap his hands over his eyes, Sock gingerly tucked himself back into his underwear, smoothing his jacket over the bump in his pants. If Jonathan noticed anything--although Sock seriously doubted he would--it could be explained away as morning wood. Surely, as one dude to another, Jonathan would understand. And hopefully not be creeped out.

Still, the rain misting his skin and the brightening light of a cloudy day had woken Sock up to the point of no return. Groaning, Sock resigned himself to wakefulness and another day of hoarding food. Turning the corner of the gas station, Sock wandered around the abandoned pumps, their rubber hoses swaying in the breeze. One smelled strongly of gasoline, and he carefully steered his way around it, breathing shallowly.

At last he found himself back out on the road. He looked to the left--dilapidated RV, bar. The house they’d stayed in, somewhere out in the distance. To the right--two houses, both with peeling brown paint and overgrown lawns. Behind him, the gas station and a still-sleeping Jonathan.

Sock knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to go back inside the gas station and lay down next to Jonathan and maybe sneak a few peeks at his sleeping face, study the way his chest lifted and fell as he breathed. Wonder how the bleached hair would feel under his fingers.

He knew wanted to, but he also knew that he shouldn’t.

Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Sock stole one last glance at Jonathan through the door. Still asleep, probably would be for a while. Turning to one of the houses--the one with dead daylilies in front of the mailbox--Sock crept up the stairs and opened the door.

\------

It took Jonathan a few minutes to realize he was alone after he woke up.

At first, he just rolled over, trying to get feeling back into the arm that he’d accidentally ended up sleeping on. Slowly, he opened his eyes, staring up at the water-stained ceiling above him. For a moment, he was disoriented--why was everything white?--until his brain caught up with the rest of him and remembered that he and Sock had moved the day before. No longer at the farmhouse, no longer surviving on cold preserves that tasted like ketchup.

No, now they were sleeping on a cold floor and eating cold soup that tasted like ketchup. Vast improvements had been made.

Jonathan tugged his arms out of his sheet cocoon, stretching them up over his head before flopping one down over his face. The night before had been...weird. Not just the soup ordeal, either. He may or may not have had a dream that involved Sock looking very sexy. Really, he couldn’t remember much, except that he had been at once uncomfortable and incredibly horny.

Speaking of Sock. Where was he?

Sitting up, Jonathan was surprised (but not shocked) to find Sock’s sheets in a messy pile on the floor. Slowly, he detangled himself from the rest of the sheets and got to his feet. Voice still hoarse from sleep, he called out to the shelves: “Sock?”

No answer. Unless Sock was lying somewhere on the floor, it looked like he wasn’t in the gas station. Jonathan glanced out the windows at the front of the store, grimacing when he saw more rain pouring down from the skies. Moving towards the back, he tried again. “Sock? Where are you?”

Silence again, much to Jonathan’s dismay--it meant he’d have to go out in the rain, a task he wasn’t looking forward to. But he also didn’t want to start breakfast without his companion, lest he accidentally eat something that had already been claimed.

He was kicking his sheets into a more condensed mess when he saw it. A little flicker of movement outside the station, down the road a bit. Quietly moving towards the door, Jonathan watched the other side of the street. Silence, except for the sound of falling water, and the steady drip of a leak somewhere behind the register. No movement, either. Whatever it had been had gone, apparently.

Shrugging, Jonathan reached for the door handle, anticipating the rough sound of the bell to announce his exit.

He did not anticipate the door flying open, the bell crashing to the floor loudly, and two pairs of hands grabbing roughly for his arms, all in a matter of seconds.

Twisting around, falling hard against the doorframe, and stumbling to his feet, Jonathan ran.

From the advancing sound of footsteps behind him and the sharp twinge of pain coming from his knee every time his feet hit the pavement, he knew he wasn’t going to run fast enough.

\------

This had to be the most boring house Sock had ever been in.

All the walls were white. Only two pictures in the entire place, and one of them was a landscape painting of a field of grass, the kind you find in doctor’s offices and which you begin hating within five minutes of your stay in the waiting room. The other was a family portrait, done in the most typical Sears-manner possible. Sock didn’t stay to study it. He didn’t want to know whose house this was.

After all, he was going to be digging through their closets and underwear drawers. That would tell him much more than he ever cared to know.

For example, it told him, at the moment, that the couple who used to live there were into some pretty kinky shit. He held aloft the leather strap-laden lingerie with a raised eyebrow. How the hell was someone supposed to wear this thing?

But, then again, everything considered, maybe they weren’t.

Sock dumped the lingerie on the floor, atop the growing pile which he had lovingly dubbed ‘Useless Shit’. For now, it featured bras, tampons, and one vibrator, bright pink, which he had picked up by the tips of two fingers before dropping unceremoniously into the pile.

On the opposite end of the drawer was clothing he could only assume belonged to the man of the household. The undershirts might be salvageable, although probably several sizes too large for Sock. He was quite deliberately ignoring the pile of boxers that took up one corner of the drawer. Sock had never felt comfortable in them; maybe Jonathan would take a look, though.

Jonathan wearing boxers. That was dangerous thought territory.

Sighing, Sock reached all the way to the back of the drawer, pulling forward the rest of the women’s underwear. Another bra, a stray tampon, a few thongs. Oh, look, another vibrator. Grabbing everything, he topped off the Useless Shit Pile, Version 1. Now to start Version 2, with the drawer below.

He slid it open and was about to groan out loud--he was presented with a mass of fabric tangled together in no semblance of order--when he heard a shout from outside.

Sock turned towards the window behind him. If Jonathan was up, why was he shouting? He reached back for the handle of his knife. Maybe it wasn’t Jonathan at all.

He wasn’t sure which option was more disturbing.

Pushing back the curtain, Sock just managed to catch a glimpse of Jonathan tearing into the other house--the one Sock planned to explore the next day, with any luck--followed closely by another person.

A man, large and heavyset, wearing a lot of black, and carrying a pipe.

He almost tripped over the lingerie rushing out of the house.

\------

Jonathan was running faster than he’d ever run before, and it still wasn’t good enough.

In a desperate move, he’d barged into one of the abandoned houses down the road, hoping to lose his attackers by hiding inside a closet or a basement. He’d breezed through the door, not even trying to slam it behind his back. He could hear the wood bang into the wall as he swerved around a corner, running straight into the stairs and tripping over the carpet.

Crawling up as fast as he could manage, Jonathan heard the hollow clang of metal hitting the soft floor, not two inches away from his right foot. Faster, faster, he had to go up faster and find a door with a lock and maybe--

Just as his knee hit the top landing, the metal came down again, hard, directly onto his left ankle.

Jonathan yelped, struggling to turn around and face his attacker. He managed, barely, to dodge a third swing of what turned out to be a pipe. The blow landed next to his hip, nicking his hand.

Scooching backward, Jonathan looked up at what he was certain would be the last thing he’d ever see--a huge man, lifting a pipe stained with rust and blood, smiling maniacally.

His back hit the cheap wood of a closet in the hallway. The pipe started coming back down just as he shoved his fingers underneath the door, nails cracking.

Too late.

His grip on the jamb tightened as he closed his eyes, waiting for the pain and the blood and--

**CLANG**

He cracked open one of his eyes to the grinding of metal on metal and the sight of some familiar ripped-up jeans. Sighing, he hauled himself up to a sitting position. “Sock.”

As soon as he relaxed, the pain hit him in full force; the splinters of his bones and the splinters under his nails. “FUCK!”

Sock spared a glance over his shoulder, hastily roving his eyes over Jonathan’s body. No obvious blood, but in pain, so there must be a wound somewhere. Finally he saw Jonathan’s ankle, looking decidedly crushed.

Turning back to the attacker, Sock pushed his knife out, sending the man off balance, and pointed it at his neck. He felt his face settle into what Mephistopheles had always affectionately referred to as his ‘Demon Face’. Barely audible, gravelly with anger, he whispered, “I am going to kill you.”

The attacker, to his credit, looked scared shitless for about two seconds, before a flash of recognition crossed his face and he relaxed, putting his hands on his hips. “Sowachowski?”

Sock immediately recognized the voice. This man was named Michael; he was a Demon. One of the scouts associated with the breeding program, in fact. He was the kind of man that Mephistopheles always said he disliked personally, but professionally couldn’t find any fault with. In short: “basically, he‘s a bastard, but he’s good at his job.”

Oddly enough, this fact didn’t make his anger dissipate at all.

Michael leaned out over the banister, calling towards the back of the house. “Troy, get your ass up here! It’s Sowachowski!”

Sock grimaced, recognizing the second name and hoping against all hope that they wouldn’t remember him.

The response was faint and exasperated. “Who?”

“You know! The Twink.” Michael turned a predatory smile Sock’s way, and he strengthened the grip on his knife.

“Oh shit! Really?” Loud footsteps, and another man arrived, equally heavy as Michael and at least a head taller. He laughed. “Shit, Twinky! What’re you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing, Troy.” Even Sock was surprised by the cold steel sound of his voice. Troy paused in his ascent of the stairs, and Michael cocked an eyebrow, concerned. Sock didn’t dare look over his shoulder at Jonathan to see his reaction.

“Hey, Sowachowski.” Michael nodded at Sock’s still-extended arm. “Why don’t you put the knife down?”

“Not until you put that down.” Sock twitched his hand towards the pipe in Michael’s hand, the one that had made dents in the wood underneath the carpet on the stairs. The one he’d seen smash through people’s skulls before. He wasn’t so much worried that Michael would hurt him--Michael was certainly despicable, but even he had principles against hurting allies--but Jonathan was another story. As soon as Sock moved out of the way, Michael would go on the attack again.

Michael shrugged and dropped the pipe onto the landing, smirking when Jonathan twitched as it hit the ground. Reluctantly, Sock lowered his knife and resheathed it. “What are you doing here, Michael?”

“Same as you, probably. Scouting.” Michael was leering at Jonathan, and Sock subtly moved further between them. Apparently getting the message, Michael settled back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you?”

“Um.” Shit, he hadn’t thought this far. Which ‘right’ answer should he go with? The one he’d told Jonathan, that he was trying to get away from the Demons? Or the one Michael was expecting?

Troy reached the top of the stairs, joining Michael in towering over Sock.

“Scouting.”

“Not doing too well, then, Twinky.” Troy gestured towards Jonathan. “Saw you two having a sleepover last night.” Sock’s face flushed. Shit, how much had they seen? “Unless,” Troy smirked, leaning down to Sock’s eye-level, “you’re tryin’ to get in his pants?”

Sock clenched his teeth, avoiding eye contact. He could physically feel his face turning red. He loathed the feeling of Troy’s breath skirting over his cheeks when he laughed, straightening up and turning back to Michael.

“The Twink’s growing up, Mike!”

Michael snorted. “Could’ve done better. This fucker reminds me of my ex.”

“What happened to her, again?”

“Bitch burned inside her apartment building. Never been so happy in my life.”

Taking the opportunity while the two older Demons were distracted, Sock stepped back and knealt down next to Jonathan. He lowered his voice, hoping he could still be heard over the raucous sound of insults. “Are you okay?”

Jonathan tried turning his damaged ankle. “It might be broken. Hurts like a bitch.”

Nodding, Sock pushed his hat off his forehead. “Um, let me see your hand.”

They both sucked in sharp breaths when they saw the state of Jonathan’s fingers. Sharp pieces of wood had embedded themselves all the way into his nail beds. The wounds were raw and bleeding, creating ugly pools inside his nails.

“Ow,” Sock whispered, turning Jonathan’s hand over gently. The pads of his fingers weren’t in any better condition.

“Tell me about it.” Jonathan’s eyes flickered over to Michael and Troy, who were now oddly silent. He frowned, trying his best to look intimidating. “Need something?”

Troy was the first to speak, although Michael glared at him reproachfully. “Nothing. Wouldn’t want to intrude on Twinky’s romantic moment.”  
Now Jonathan’s face was turning red. He tried to get a quick look at Sock’s face--was he just gonna let them say things like that?--but Sock was resolutely staring at the floor.

“Word of warning, though, man,” Troy was trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “Careful with the soap.”

This time, Michael just slapped his arm, although he was smiling. Now Jonathan didn’t have to try to look intimidating; he could feel the anger bubbling up in his throat. He was about to snap something--something very stupid, probably--when he felt a throb of pain from his hand. Looking back to Sock, he saw that he was gently squeezing his wounded hand and shaking his head no. Don’t bother.

Deflating, Jonathan leaned back against the closet and continued glaring at Michael and Troy as they continued joking--”Ya know, now that he’s got a boyfriend, maybe he’ll stop hitting on us” “Damn, I’ll almost miss it”--when Sock cleared his throat loudly, releasing Jonathan’s hand and standing back up. Troy and Michael stopped immediately.

“Did you need something, or can we go now?”

“Oh, c’mon Twinky. You always love seeing me.” Troy leaned around the see Jonathan again, stage whispering, “He likes the muscles. That, and I have an enormous--”

“Troy, shut up.” Sock turned to Michael instead. “Well?”

He was really expecting Michael to back down, pick up his pipe and his partner and traipse out of the house. He wasn’t expecting him to suddenly perk up, reaching back into his bag and pulling out a piece of paper.

“Boss told me to give this to you, if I saw you.” Sock took the paper. His name was written on the front in Mephistopheles’ trailing script. He sighed. Probably a letter of reprimand.

“Alright. Anything else?” He looked straight up into Michael’s face, trying to convey without words just how much he didn’t want to see him anymore. From his nod of understanding and hasty recovery of his pipe, Michael got the message.

“Nope. Well, we’ll just be heading out, then.” Michael grabbed the back of Troy’s jacket, pushing him towards the stairs. “Say goodbye to the Twink, Troy.”

“Later, Twinky.” Sock almost relaxed. Maybe that would be all, maybe he wouldn’t say something dumb for once-- “I know you wanna suck my dick, but it’ll just have to wait.” No such luck.

Sock didn’t move a muscle until he heard the front door slam shut, leaving the house in silence except for the sound of Jonathan’s breathing behind him. Finally, when he was reasonably sure that they’d gone for good, he turned back to Jonathan, crouching down and opening the letter from Mephistopheles.

While Sock read, Jonathan seethed. Where’d that guy get off thinking he could talk to someone like that? At least it was obvious that Sock didn’t like him. If he did, Jonathan would have to be seriously worried about his mental health.

(It wasn’t until later, when he woke up the next morning, that Jonathan would realize the actual implications of Troy’s taunts; namely, that Sock was gay. He would have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, how dare that motherfucker; on the other, holy shit he might actually have a shot at this. Rolling over to look at Sock, the latter realization would hit him full in the face, resulting in a brief panic attack.)

When Sock was done reading, he heaved a sigh and dropped the paper on Jonathan’s lap. Using his non-injured hand, he picked it up and read:

_Dear Sock,_

_I’m getting a little worried about you. It’s been almost a month since you left on your last scouting mission, and I understand you’re trying out Mara’s method. I’ll admit, the reason I’m writing this is to get her off my back. She’s afraid that you became friends with someone who’s forcing you into vegetarianism._

_I’ve tried explaining that it’ll never happen, but she won’t stop chattering my ear off about it, so here we are._

_I understand these things take some time. Don’t feel rushed to return, but please consider whether your mission is really worth staying out in the winter. I’d feel better if you were back on base._

_I’m sending this out with Michael with strict instructions to give it to you. If you find it sans Mike, hallelujah. Finally a reason to get rid of him._

_Sincerely, Mephistopheles_

__

“So who’s this…” Jonathan squinted at the name, trying to make out the cursive. “...Mefistofeeleys?”

At last Sock’s grim look broke. He giggled, taking back the letter. “Mephistopheles is my boss.”

“Sounds like he’s worried about you.” Sock shrugged, moving to examine Jonathan’s ankle.

“Meph’s like a dad to me. Probably the best part of becoming a Demon.” He bent the broken joint experimentally. “You can guess what the worst part is.”

“Weird assholes accusing you of being a rapist?” Jonathan regretted his choice of words as soon as they left his mouth. Sock winced, but didn’t say anything. Awkwardly clearing his throat, Jonathan changed the subject. “Think you can help me down the stairs?”

Shrugging, Sock wrapped an arm under Jonathan’s. “It’s gonna be hard, but I think we’ll manage.”

Getting down the stairs was an ordeal neither of them was prepared for. They almost ended up with two broken ankles, one on Jonathan and one on Sock. The carpet didn’t make anything easier. When they managed to stagger out the door, Sock insisted they sit down and take a breather. Outside, the air was still cold, but the rain had stopped. A few of the clouds were breaking up, showing the blue sky behind.

After a ten minute break, they made it across the road and back into the station without a hitch. Sock helped Jonathan lay down, awkwardly. In trying not to let go of Jonathan’s weight prematurely, he accidentally stayed too long and ended up being pulled forward, almost falling on top of the blonde. His legs crashed into cold tile, while his chest and face smashed into warm body. He pulled back a little too fast, stuttering apologies.

“Sorry, sorry!” Sock scrambled back, careful to avoid stepping on any limbs. Jonathan sighed, staring at the ceiling as Sock dug around in his bag for painkillers. He popped back into Jonathan’s field of vision holding three pills and a bottle of water. “You okay?”

“Fine, I think.” Taking the painkillers, Jonathan sighed. “What’s the plan?”

Sheepishly, Sock lifted the tweezers he’d taken from the farmhouse. “It might be better if you relaxed.”

\------

“And...there.” Sock finished wrapping the bandage around Jonathan’s ankle, smiling as the other boy puffed out a breath of relief, releasing the corner of sheet he’d been biting for the last half-hour.

“Fuckin’ hell, that hurt.”

“Well, unless there’s something else, I should be done putting you in pain.”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Sock.” Outside, the clouds had cleared off only to give way to a clear black sky. They’d spent all afternoon pulling splinters out of Jonathan’s hand and setting his ankle. In all that time, Jonathan hadn’t seen Sock eat or drink anything.

In short, if Jonathan looked like Hell--bloody and swollen and pale--Sock looked like Hell Warmed Over.

Sock didn’t say anything, but his smile made Jonathan smile, despite the pain, so he interpreted it as a ‘you’re welcome’. In the meantime, Sock had unwrapped a snack cake and broken it in half. He pushed the larger half towards Jonathan. “You should eat.”

Jonathan grimaced, eyeing the cake. “I’ll be honest. I think I’ll puke if I eat anything.”

Swallowing the bite he’d been chewing, Sock frowned. “Too much pain?”

“I don’t know. Just not hungry, I guess.”

Sock bit the inside of his cheek before reaching for the cake he’d given to Jonathan. He broke off a smaller piece and held it out. “One bite.”

“Only if you feed it to me.” Jonathan smirked, watching Sock’s face turn blotchy red. It took a minute for him to regain his bearings, poking Jonathan’s face playfully.

“Whatever you say, Hot Stuff.” He pressed the food to Jonathan’s lips, watching it as it slid in and onto his tongue. The tips of his fingers were engulfed by dry warmth before he pulled them back, slowly.

Sock almost let his hand settle onto Jonathan’s cheek, leaning forward, when he realized exactly what he was doing. Snapping his entire arm away, he sat up so fast he felt one of his vertebra crack. “Okay! Well, uh.” Looking back down at Jonathan’s face, he was oddly pleased to see it flushing pink.

Not pleased enough to resume previous activities, though. He grabbed his sheets and flopped down onto the floor, blowing out the candle hastily. “Night!”

The reply was delayed and slightly breathless. “G’night.”


	13. Two Days in Two Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another chapter! I'm writing on my days off of work, so expect updates about every week or so.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for the wonderful comments and kudos! I love each and every one of them with all my heart <3

The next two days were spent sifting through other people’s belongings and trying to ignore Jonathan’s pain. 

To his credit, Jonathan was doing his best to bite his tongue, hopping as well as he could on one foot across the street and up stairs and not making a sound all the while. Sock, in a moment of brilliant foresight, brought the bottle of painkillers along in his pocket. 

However, in a moment of brilliant hindsight, he shouldn’t have left the vibrators and lingerie on the floor of the bedroom. They were still scattered from his mad dash outside, making them all the more conspicuous. Jonathan raised an eyebrow as Sock helped him settle onto the bed. 

“So what’s all this?” Jonathan picked at the thin blanket bunched up on the mattress. Everything in the room was in a disarray, speaking to the rush of its occupants to leave the house. Both the closets were wide open, cobwebs hanging inside the doorways. In their hurry, someone had dropped a bottle of cheap perfume and broken the bottle, staining the carpet and leaving behind the acrid scent of alcohol and flowers. 

“It’s, um.” Sock tried to kick one of the lacy pieces of underwear under the dresser but only succeeded in getting it caught on his shoe. “Stuff.”

“Some interesting stuff, if you ask me.” 

“Yeah, well.” Finally dislodging the panties from his boot, Sock dropped it back into the drawer and pulled out the pile of white t-shirts he’d left there the day before. “Look through those.”

Sock tossed the pile over onto the bed, and Jonathan gingerly picked up a shirt. It smelled musty, and he wrinkled his nose before tossing it back onto the floor. “What for, exactly?”

“See if you’ll fit in any of ‘em, I guess.” Gazing into the messy drawer he’d been planning on sorting, Sock groaned, shoulders sinking.

“What? Don’t tell me they have an entire drawer of vibrators.” Throwing another shirt away, Jonathan craned his neck to see the dresser. 

That seemed to perk Sock up, at least. He breathed a laugh, at any rate. Jonathan smiled, hiding it by ducking his head down, pretending to inspect the hem of a shirt. He’d woken up in the middle of the night when the initial round of painkillers wore off, and while waiting for round two to kick in, he’d stared at the ceiling. Just thinking, really. 

It was during this time that he’d realized the implications of Troy’s words; that Sock was gay. At first, all he’d wanted to do was get up--despite his ankle throbbing like a bitch--track down the bastard, and punch him in the face. Or maybe in the dick, which he seemed to think Sock was fond of. Asshole.

Only after serious contemplation of revenge did Jonathan glance over at Sock--sleeping soundly, thank God--and realize that he might actually have a shot at this. That, provided that he could get Sock to be attracted to him, there wouldn’t be much of an obstacle to...

The panic attack set in shortly afterward and only ended when the painkillers kicked in and knocked him out. 

During breakfast, while Sock was rewrapping his bandage and telling Jonathan the story of how he’d broken his arm in kindergarten (short version: he fell out of his bedroom window trying to grab a squirrel sitting in a tree), he started wondering how he should go about this. How to get Sock to be attracted to him? Granted, Sock already called him ‘Hot Stuff’ and was pretty touchy-feely, but how to communicate the sentiment of, ‘hello yes I think you’re really cute and funny and you also terrify me a little bit but it’s kinda hot’?

After racking his brain for nearly two hours, Jonathan still didn’t have an answer. Making Sock laugh was a good start, though. 

Searching through the dresser was proving to be fruitless, since it soon became apparent that the people who owned it only used it as a dumping ground for things they couldn’t hang up in their closets--underwear, socks, old t-shirts and sweatshirts, all too big for Sock and too worn-looking for Jonathan. 

The only thing in the entire dresser that actually fit Sock was one of the woman’s sweaters--a very old-fashioned thing packed away with mothballs; green with yellow stripes. Neither the smell nor the color combination stopped Sock from trying it on though, and he even struck a few dramatic poses to show it off.

Jonathan laughed through the whole ordeal, but was slightly distressed to see Sock’s actual outline--skinnier than he’d initially thought, but with a bit of a stomach. 

He wasn’t sure if he was disturbed by the implication of the paunch--namely, what it said about Sock’s diet--or if the whole picture just made him cuter.

Probably both. 

At least Sock was cheering up after yesterday’s ordeal with Michael and Troy. The entire morning he’d been a little too quiet, a little too jumpy. Once, he and Jonathan had reached for the chips at the same time and the shorter boy startled so badly it was a wonder he didn’t have a heart attack. Jonathan really couldn’t blame him; in Sock’s situation he’d probably still be running an adrenaline high. 

By the time they were done sorting through the dresser, the floor of the bedroom was a sea of discarded clothes. Out of all this, they’d chosen only three things to keep: the sweater (“Sock, why?” “It’s comfy! And fashionable!” “...If you say so.”), a pair of boxers (“I knew you wore boxers! I had a feeling about it.” “Shut the hell up, Sock.”), and one white t-shirt (“C’mon, Jonathan. It’s not that worn out. You can barely see the holes.”). 

The only things Jonathan deduced from this selection were that, one, Sock had no sense of style, and two, there was some kind of implication behind Sock thinking about his underwear choices, but he wasn’t sure what it would be. 

After lunch, they started on the closets. Mostly, the only contents were hangers and old shoes, stiff from disuse and entirely the wrong sizes. Sock did manage to find a couple boxes towards the back of one, and set Jonathan to work organizing while he cleaned off the carpet a bit (this, following another close-call tripping incident, appeared to be a good idea). 

Unbeknownst to Jonathan, who had his head buried in a box of books, Sock scooped up one of the pairs of lacy panties from the floor and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, beneath the painkillers.

Sock hadn’t been thinking about the visit from Michael and Troy--he hadn’t thought about it since it ended, in fact. The simple matter was that he wasn’t afraid of them. They were bigger and stronger than he was, but Mephistopheles didn’t like them. If Sock was akin to Meph’s son, Michael and Troy were the annoying nephews he put up with every Christmas, while secretly harboring the desire to kill them. In other words: hurting Sock was like signing a death warrant. And even thugs like Troy knew that. 

No, what he was nervous about was that he had gone too far with Jonathan. 

Up until the night before, Sock had tried--desperately--to keep ahold of his feelings. Everything he’d done was either calculated for the smallest effect--for example, the nickname--or initiated by Jonathan. And now, that was all ruined, just because he’d taken one teasing suggestion just a bit too far.

Laying out the facts didn’t help. Who would approve of this crush? Troy and Michael had just laughed at it. Mara was likely to scold him for it. Mephistopheles...well. He might be okay with his son getting a boyfriend. Begrudgingly. 

But any way he looked at it, the one person most likely to be disturbed by it was Jonathan himself. If he hadn’t known before, surely Troy had clued him in: Sock was gay. He was single. And, by Troy’s insinuation, he was also horny as hell.

Not entirely untrue, especially when Jonathan bent down to close up the box and his shirt rode up a little. He had back dimples. Fuck, that was hot. 

Sock quickly turned away and concentrated very hard on knocking down spiderwebs from the second closet. Jonathan probably wouldn’t be comfortable being looked at that way, and Sock wasn’t going to take any chances. Not after last night. With the word ‘gay’ on his mind, how could Jonathan come to any other conclusion about what had almost happened?

Hand on the cheek. Eye contact. Lowering his head--God, it was so obvious that Sock had come close to kissing him!

And obviously, Jonathan knew it, but didn’t want to freak Sock out by saying so. How else was Sock supposed to explain the reassuring smiles and the furtive glances being sent his way? 

In the morning, as soon as he woke up, Sock had resolved not to touch Jonathan more than strictly necessary. It had immediately gone out the window, since apparently God hated him and was pulling strings to force every occasion for physical contact. Accidental touch during breakfast. Quick grab when Jonathan almost slipped on the stairs, forcing their faces much too close for comfort. And now, every time Sock handed something to the blond, their fingers would brush up against each other, no matter how Sock tried to position his hands. 

Really, it was enough to drive him insane.

(It didn’t stop him from grabbing the piece of lingerie, though. It was just so cute! And frilly! And purple!)

Jonathan, on the other hand, was wondering why it was getting so hard to get to Sock’s fingers. He was having to pull some near-acrobatic shit to keep up contact.

Who knew flirting was such hard work?

When the sun started to set, the two boys decided to head back to the store. Outside, the wind had picked up from the North, and strong. Subtly, Sock pulled his hat securely down on his head before readjusting the arm Jonathan had slung across his shoulders. Halfway across the road, a particular gust pushed Sock, just a bit, towards Jonathan (only reaffirming his conviction that God hated him). Jonathan almost relished the contact.

Dinner was fairly normal, everything considered. Sock, when nervous, had a tendency to talk a lot, and Jonathan, equally nervous, found his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. All in all, the silence of one was made up for in the babble of the other, although both boys walked away with regrets. (Sock, as was his nervous wont, overshared and told Jonathan about finding nudie magazines in his father’s bedroom. Jonathan, as was his nervous wont, failed to respond in any meaningful way.)

They didn’t stay up late, not even late enough to warrant the lighting of their candle. Sock noted the shrinking of the candle they’d taken from the farmhouse and determined to find another one the next day. 

Provided, of course, that he didn’t spontaneously combust from embarrassment before he even got there.

Thankfully, Jonathan was able to arrange himself in his sheets on his own, preventing another accident. Sock wrapped himself up before closing his eyes, resolutely refusing to open them, even when he heard Jonathan whisper, “G’night.”

Eyes still closed, Sock murmured, “Night.”

The last thought of both before they drifted off to sleep was as follows: _This is getting bad_. 

\------

When Jonathan woke up the next morning, the first thing he saw was Sock’s sleeping face.

Not a bad view, really. Minus the drool, of course. 

Cautiously, Jonathan extended a hand covered in sheet and dabbed at the side of Sock’s mouth. He was about to decide that yes, it was a good view, when he pressed a little too hard.

The reaction was immediate--within five seconds, Sock was wide awake, bolt upright, and reaching for his knife. 

“Whoa! Okay.” Jonathan held up both his hands, sitting up slowly. “Calm down, just me.”

Sock slumped, releasing the knife handle. “Fucking hell. Don’t do that!”

“Sorry.”

“What were you doing, anyway?”

Dropping the corner of fabric with drool on it, Jonathan shrugged. “Nothing.” 

Stripping off the sheets, Sock sighed and stood up. “Well, stop doing nothing, then. Scared the living crap outta me.”

As Sock rummaged through their stockpile of snacks, Jonathan removed himself from his blanket and followed him over, situating himself across from the smaller boy. They both sat down, but still silence reigned. Jonathan even went so far as to try eye contact, but Sock kept turning his head to look at inconsequential objects--the cooler, the windows, the ceiling.

Finally, exasperated, Jonathan blurted, “Are you okay?”

Sock only looked confused. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re kinda...I don’t know. Jumpy.”

“What? I’m fine, honest.”

“No, you’re not.” Jonathan reached over to pull Sock’s next bite of food down from his mouth. As soon as his fingers were within touching distance, Sock pulled back violently, almost falling back onto the floor. He narrowly caught himself on one hand, glaring up at Jonathan, who was not a little smug.

“Fine. I’m a little high-strung.” Internally, Sock searched for a reason that would seem more plausible than ‘I’m trying not to freak you out with my gayness sorry’. He failed. But he did manage to come back with, “Why aren’t you? I mean, you just got attacked.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Don’t need to be worried.”

“And why would that be?”

“Well, you’re here.” Sock felt his ears turning red. How could Jonathan just say things like that? Especially after Sock almost kis--

No. He wasn’t going to think about that. It would just make his entire face look like a tomato.

Standing back up abruptly, Sock stuffed the rest of the chip he was holding into his mouth. He didn’t dare look at Jonathan’s face. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” The sound of disappointment laced the word, and Sock almost flinched.

“The other house. We’ll see if they have anything.” And with that, he reached down, pulling Jonathan to his feet without another word.

\------

The two didn’t talk the entire walk over to the house, and only spoke minimally on the stairs--mostly, “Watch out”, and “I know”, and “Almost there.” They passed the spots where Michael had brought down his pipe without much fanfare. Even the blood on the bottom of the hall closet didn’t elicit a response. In fact, they didn’t say anything of much importance until they were halfway through sorting the contents of the closet.

“Why’re we looking through women’s clothes, anyway?” Jonathan, again sitting on the bed, threw yet another fancy dress away onto the floor. This house was cleaner than the one across the road. The bed was made, the closets had been closed when they arrived. No perfume bottles smashed on the floor, for which Jonathan’s nose was thankful. 

Sock pushed a bunch of empty hangers further down the hanging rod, a little roughly. They clacked together unpleasantly before hitting the wall. “Because I can fit into them.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jonathan looked skeptically at the ‘okay’ pile Sock was creating at his feet. “It’s mostly dresses and skirts, though.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Sock turned around, planting his fists on his hips, and for the first time Jonathan considered the possibility that the purple thing around Sock’s waist might not be a long t-shirt.

“...No.” He drew out the word, still trying to determine if Sock was presently wearing a skirt. Were those creases or pleats? 

“Good choice.” Sock whirled back to the closet, taking down another fancy dress. Ice evidently broken, he sighed and started talking. “Did this woman own anything casual, or was she just attending galas every night?”

“I dunno,” Jonathan looked back at the stack of silk and chiffon dresses. “They’re nice, I guess.”

Huffing, Sock shoved two more piles of fabric into Jonathan’s arms. “They’re useless. Why do people even wear things that aren’t functional?”

“I’m sure they were functional for her. Whoever she was.”

“Well, you can still look cute without your clothes being thin as shit.” Sock inspected a sweater dress, hesitated, then dropped it onto the ‘okay’ pile. “Just look at me.”

“Oh, is that why you’re…” Jonathan stopped midsentence at the look Sock gave him. Shit. Backpedal, backpedal. “...uh. Random?”

“What about this outfit is random?” Sock looked down at his clothes, sounding a little hurt. 

“Uh, well.” Looking at it more closely, there really wasn’t anything ‘random’ in Sock’s outfit. Mismatched, yes. Coordinated, no. Oddly satisfying to see, yes. 

Actually, this was a pretty good excuse to just look at Sock. He could keep this up all day. 

Well, provided that Sock wasn’t tapping his foot, impatiently waiting for an answer.

“The longer I look at it, the better it looks. Nevermind.”

Satisfied, Sock bent over to look over his finds. In the process of standing up, though, his hat started slipping off his head. Hastily, he grabbed for it and fixed it in its proper place. 

Scooching closer to where Sock was standing, Jonathan gestured toward the article. “Do you ever take that off?”

Dumping the load of clothes on the bed, Sock reached up and pulled down on the flaps. “Not if I can help it.”

“Why?” Already, Jonathan was planning something incredibly stupid. Really, given this golden of an opportunity, he couldn’t help it.

“Because, that’s why.” Sock started tossing dresses over to the discard pile. Maybe, if Jonathan could just get him distracted...

“Oh, no. Only moms get to use that excuse.” Jonathan started loosening up the muscles in the arm closest to Sock.

“I know, I know. My mom used to use it all the--”

Jonathan reached for the hat as quickly as he could, barely catching the edge of one of the flaps before Sock reacted. The reaction came too late--distraction successful--and it slid off of Sock’s hair.

Sock’s hair. 

Holy hell, how did hair stand up like that?

Really, even though it was a bad idea, the laughter that bubbled out of Jonathan’s mouth was an involuntary response and could not have been stopped.

“Hey! Give me--” Sock aimed for the hat, but Jonathan swiped it out of reach at the last second. And again. And again. “Will you stop that!”

“Stop what?” Jonathan’s face was seriously hurting from smiling so much, it was just--Sock’s hair really had a life of its own. 

“Being a little shit!” He followed Jonathan as he leaned back to keep the hat out of reach.

“But you look so--” Too far, too far. Jonathan leaned back too far, and, in laying flat on his back, felt a sudden weight land on his torso. “Oof!” 

Once he’d regained his breath, Jonathan peered down at his chest to find a very red-faced Sock not three inches from his nose. 

He almost stopped breathing. 

Sock, for all his skinniness, was heavy and warm on Jonathan’s abdomen. He’d ended up lodged in between Jonathan’s legs and sprawled out on top of him. One of Sock’s arms was trapped between their bodies, and Jonathan briefly wondered if the smaller boy could feel his heart hammering away behind his ribs. Looking into Sock’s face, Jonathan was struck by the pure green of his eyes, which were wide open and staring straight back into his own. 

A sudden intake of breath on Sock’s part drew Jonathan’s gaze down to his lips. When he spoke, Sock’s voice resonated as little more than a whisper, sending a shiver down Jonathan’s spine.

“I’m what?”

The air was suddenly very thin around Jonathan’s head. That had to be why he was having trouble breathing. Finally, he found enough oxygen to breathe out one word. “...cute.”

If it was possible, Sock’s face became even more red. “Uh. Y-you--”

Lifting the hat back from over his head, Jonathan plopped it down over Sock’s hair. “Actually, you’re pretty cute both ways.” 

Sock tried to stammer something for a solid ten seconds and failed. Suddenly, he shot up, stumbling back onto his feet and almost tripping over fabric (again). Sitting up, Jonathan gave him a confused look. “What?”

Stuttering again, Sock finally gestured out the door. His voice was hoarse. “Candles. I was gonna find. Candles.” And with that, he shot out of the room and down the stairs.

Jonathan tried to stand, but the sudden jolt of pain reminded him of his broken ankle, and he lay back down on the bed. 

Staring up at the ceiling, he tried to figure out what just happened. He’d been teasing Sock; played keep away; then they both fell over and--

Oh, hell.

Covering his eyes with his arm, Jonathan tried desperately not to think about the press of Sock’s weight over his hips, the heat passing through layers of fabric, the way his lips looked so soft when they were that close.

He failed, quite spectacularly. Pulling his hoodie down over the crotch of his pants, Jonathan whispered angrily to the water stains on the ceiling. “Why am I so good at flirting only when I’m not trying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> romantic scenes are hard and they make me cry halp


	14. Fateri Amorem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for the kudos and comments! They really help get me through the tough parts of writing :)
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this chapter ;)))

Sock really shouldn’t have been surprised at the sheer number of candles these people collected, considering the collection of fancy dinner dresses the lady had kept upstairs, and yet here he was. Staring down five shelves of candles and trying not to scream. 

Hands shaking, he picked one up, cracking open the lid and inhaling the scent of something flowery. Twisting it around to look at the label, he wasn’t surprised to read ‘Lavendar Vanilla’ printed in flowery script. He inhaled again, deeply. His mother’s favorite scent had always been lavendar--she said it was calming, or something like that. 

Lord knew he needed a little calm right now. 

Jonathan had called him cute. In fact, he had called him cute twice. In a row! Sock swore he could still feel the give of the mattress sinking under their weight, the bumps of Jonathan’s ribs pressing against his hand, the smell of Jonathan’s clothes and hair and skin and--

Okay, lavendar. Calm. Calm.

Keeping the candle close, Sock sorted through the other votives with his opposite hand. Most of them hadn’t even been opened, the plastic covering the rims barely even ripped. Who needed five shelves of candles? It was a preposterous amount of candles. Along with the dresses upstairs, Sock could only come to one conclusion: whoever had lived in this house apparently enjoyed buying things they never intended to use. 

Sock closed up the Lavendar Vanilla candle and tried to stuff it into his jacket pocket, forgetting the bottle of painkillers already there. Muttering under his breath, he pulled the bottle out. 

The panties he’d grabbed yesterday fell out with it and Sock almost dropped everything trying to hide it away.

Fine, maybe he wasn’t in much of a position to judge a person who collected useless things. The only reason he’d kept these was because they were cute, and his favorite color besides. 

He felt the ghost of Jonathan’s hipbones pressing into his stomach and shivered. In the back of his brain he felt the beginnings of the smallest glimmer of hope. Maybe he could use these, sometime. 

Stuffing the lingerie into one of his inside pockets, he gathered up the painkillers and candle. Pacing back further into the house, he stopped short.

He’d almost forgotten that there were burn marks on the outside of the house, but here was the damage: melted countertops, scorched dishes, the ashy remains of what might have been wood. Evidently, the damage had been confined to an outside sunroom and one corner of the kitchen. How the hell that had happened, Sock didn’t know. 

The sunroom led out to the backyard, which was in a similar state of overgrowth as the farmhouse. Peeking outside, Sock could see a path beaten down through the grass--where Troy must’ve come into the house. 

Other than the fire damage, the kitchen was largely undisturbed. Maybe Troy had knocked over one of the kitchen chairs when he and Michael had been on the hunt, but that was superficial, and easily fixed and damn Sock’s cheeks hurt from trying not to smile.

He never thought he’d think about Troy and smiling in the same ten-second time frame, but there was a first time for everything.

Finally, leaning up against a non-melted portion of the counter, Sock gave in. He smiled, he giggled. He even flailed his arms a little bit and hopped around, not that he would ever admit it. 

Oh, what the hell? He’d admit it to anyone, even Troy. Because the world had never been more beautiful than right then and right there. He could understand why tweenage girls screamed and jumped around at boy-band concerts, now. He’d probably do the same thing, if Jonathan was in one of them. And especially if Jonathan was looking at him the way he had ten minutes ago, whispering that Sock was cute and--

Okay, he flailed his arms and hopped around a lot. By the time he was done, his cheeks were smarting from grinning so much. 

Unfortunately, such a high could only end with crashing back down to earth. 

How the fuck could he keep this up?

He’d never intended to stay out here forever, even after offering to help Jonathan. At that point, he’d only known that eating Jonathan was going to be impossible, that he didn’t want Jonathan to hate him. But taking Jonathan back to base would be a death sentence for the blonde. He wasn’t terribly strong or fast or ruthless. The chances of Jonathan fitting in with Demon society were slim; the chances of Mephistopheles wanting to take him in even slimmer. 

Unless, of course, he could argue Jonathan’s case. 

Sometimes, even Demons met people that they didn’t want to see die. Family members. Friends. Coworkers. Sock had heard rumors that there were a few scouts who had successfully convinced Mephistopheles not to send these people to the butchers. Only a few, though, and Sock had never actually met any of the people spared the kitchen knives. 

He knew he was on good terms with Mephistopheles, but so was Mara. Hell, if anything, Mara should be on better terms with Meph; she’d known him longer. But even Mara--tough, ruthless, reliable Mara--had brought in someone to be rescued after a mission, once. She’d spent the better part of an afternoon with Mephistopheles, arguing about it. 

The next day, the man she’d brought back was sent to the butchers, and Mara hadn’t spoken or eaten for almost a week afterward. Mephistopheles told Sock that the man had been her brother.

If Meph wouldn’t even let Mara protect her brother, why would he let Sock keep a man he’d known for less than a month?

\------

Jonathan was beginning to seriously consider risking breaking his neck by going downstairs when Sock reappeared in the bedroom doorway. 

“Hey. You find candles?” 

“Yeah. Um.” Sock hesitated, sighed. “Can--can we talk?”

Frowning, Jonathan nodded. This didn’t sound good. He couldn’t recall Sock looking this upset and nervous before--angry, yes. Guilty, yes. Embarrassed, yes. Pissed as hell, yes. Upset? No. “What’s up?”

“Well.” Clearing his throat, Sock sat down next to Jonathan on the bed. Their legs were only an inch from touching, and Jonathan resisted the urge to close the gap. “You remember the note Mephistopheles sent me?”

“Yeah. What about it?” Jonathan’s stomach began sinking. Sock’s boss had wanted him to come back to base for the winter. Had he decided to go back? And if he had, was he planning to take Jonathan with him?

He couldn’t really decide, at first impression which choice he’d rather take. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be apart from Sock all winter, especially not with his ankle broken. On the other hand, Demons were scary. They’d eat him alive before he could even get a word in. 

“I was thinking.” Sock lifted up his hands, making to fiddle with the hem of his shirt, but snatched them back onto his lap at the last second. “I don’t think I’m going to go back.”

It took a few seconds for Jonathan to process Sock’s statement. When he did, he felt his jaw drop open. “What?”

“Well, I, um. You see, I.” He couldn’t resist the urge to start scrunching the fabric of his skirt between his fingers. After a minute of silence, Jonathan leaned over, trying to get a better look at Sock’s face. He was biting his lower lip, cheeks bright pink.

“You…?” Jonathan prompted.

Sock’s hands abruptly came up and covered his face, and he made a strangled noise before flopping back onto the mattress. “Why is this so hard?”

This time, Jonathan was the one fiddling with his clothes; he stretched the cuffs of his hoodie over his hands, twisting the fabric. He really should’ve seen this coming. Of course Sock didn’t like him that way. Ever since he’d started flirting (if it could be called that), Sock had been nothing but uncomfortable. And the last straw had been been drawn half an hour ago.

Rejections were a lot worse than he expected. He’d thought it was bad when the girl he’d pined after in middle school got a boyfriend and held hands with him in the hallway after class. This had to be at least ten times worse than that. 

“Sock.” Jonathan sighed and glanced over to the smaller boy, still laying back. “It’s okay if you don’t like me that way. I get it. Don’t force yourself. You can go back. I’ll be fine.”

“What?!” Jonathan physically reeled back to avoid getting smacked in the head by Sock’s limbs as he shot up into sitting. “What? No. No no no.”

Confused, Jonathan released the ends of his sleeves. “What?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Okay,” Sock waved his hands in front of his face, as if trying to clear the air of stupid questions. “Let’s start this over.” He paused, sucked in a deep breath, and released it. Jonathan was about to follow suit--thinking, wrongly, that Sock was trying the ‘Deep Breath In, Deep Breath Out’ routine--when Sock started speaking, fast, eyes scrunched closed. “I’m not going back to base because I really like you and I’m afraid if I take you back with me they’ll want to eat you.” Cautiously opening one eye, Sock peeked at Jonathan. At the shell-shocked expression, he faltered. “And, uh. That would be...bad. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Opening his mouth, Jonathan struggled to find words to say. Something meaningful, prefereably. Something like, ‘You’re amazing’, ‘That’s a wonderful idea’, or, hell, maybe even, ‘I love you’. 

Instead, all he was able to utter was, “Are you sure?”

From Sock’s incredulous face, Jonathan could guess the answer. He tried again. 

“I mean, are you sure that you like me? Like, like-like me?” Dumbly, he pointed to himself, as if there was someone else Sock could’ve been talking to. 

Blushing, Sock ducked his head down. Now, in lieu of his hands fidgeting, his feet were tapping an incessant rhythm against the carpet. Jonathan moved his right foot, the uninjured one, resting his green sneaker against Sock’s boot. The tapping slowed, stopped. Sock took a deep breath and looked up into Jonathan’s face. 

Maybe the concern written across Jonathan’s features, or the contact of their feet, or the warmth of their shoulders and arms brushing closely together calmed something within Sock. Maybe he finally screwed his courage to the sticking place. Maybe he managed to throw caution to the wind. 

Regardless, Sock breathed it out, smooth as silky water.

“Yes, Jonathan, I like you.”

When Jonathan was next aware of his actions, his arms were wrapped around Sock’s shoulders tightly; his face was buried in Sock’s neck; he was breathing in Sock’s scent, heavy and sweet. The smaller boy was breathing fast, and Jonathan could feel their combined pulses racing, one filling in the silence of the other in a perfect continuous beat. Sock was struggling to remove his arms from their earlier position, now trapped between two chests. Finally managing to extricate one hand, Sock wrapped an arm around Jonathan’s waist. His hand rested firmly against Jonathan’s spine, gently pulling them closer. 

Jonathan tightened his hold. A perfect fit, even at a slightly awkward angle. 

Sock wriggled a bit, turning his head into Jonathan’s neck. His lips brushed against the cup of Jonathan’s ear as he sighed, content.

Readjusting so Sock could use both his arms, Jonathan nestled into the dip between Sock’s neck and his shoulder, whispering. “I like you too, Sock.”

\------

They stayed entwined for the better part of an hour, barely speaking. If bodies weren’t fickle things, they might’ve stayed that way for the rest of the day. 

As it was, though, it was well after lunchtime, and Jonathan’s stomach made its demands known. Loudly. Giggling sheepishly, the two boys detangled their limbs, standing and awkwardly making their way down the stairs. 

Without the intimate contact, in the absence of the loud thumps of pulses, the silence became deafening. Jonathan gripped Sock a little closer than necessary, hoping to find that beat again. No luck.

But now Sock was nervous, and with nerves came speech. He started giving Jonathan a full dissertation on the number of candles these people had kept in their house, the fire that had destroyed the sunroom and part of the kitchen, the candle he’d chosen to keep that smelled like his mother’s old perfume. Jonathan barely made a sound, trying to remember how exactly normal people conversed, again. 

By the time they exited the house and traipsed over to the gas station, both boys’ nerves had settled considerably. Jonathan actually managed to contribute a few full sentences to the topic at hand (perfumes and colognes), and Sock actually let him, instead of babbling over him.

During lunch, Jonathan got his first taste of ‘dating’ life; namely, that nothing changed. No, that wasn’t entirely true--some things had changed. Sock didn’t hesitate to touch Jonathan’s hands anymore, and, just before leaving again for the house, Sock had leant up against Jonathan’s shoulder, nuzzling down into his hoodie sleeve. Their fingers entwined far below, on the floor. 

But there was no life-changing revelation. The world had not stopped its path around the sun, evidenced by the sun moving quickly down in the sky. Nothing in the bedroom across the street had moved an inch since they left. His ankle still hurt like a bitch. The divots of Michael’s pipe still studded the stairs. In short, he didn’t feel enlightened. No fireworks, no fanfare. Not even a slight swelling of strings in the soundtrack. 

Could it be that the movies had lied to him?

Jonathan snorted at that thought as he sorted through a drawer of socks. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, to be honest, but he supposed a part of him wanted the romantic ending. 

To Sock’s (and, to a small extent, Jonathan’s) disappointment, none of the dresses or skirts from the second house were the correct size for Sock. In addition to having expensive tastes and a penchant for candle collecting, the lady of the house was also amazingly skinny. Sock, who was far from being heavy, couldn’t fit comfortably into anything. 

Jonathan almost expected Sock to start complaining, but the smaller boy remained oddly chipper throughout the entire ordeal. Even when staring down the huge pile of Useless Shit, Sock didn’t utter one negative word. When he asked, the only response Jonathan got was, “Oh, I’m just happy, that’s all.”

Maybe Sock was feeling the typical effects of romance. That made one of them, at least.

Dinner was much the same as lunch had been, but with more romantic lighting. The candle they’d taken from the farmhouse was on its last legs, and Sock remarked--a little sadly--that this was probably the last use they’d get out of it. Jonathan’s comment about not missing the smell of mangos was met with a gentle slap on the arm. 

There was no hand-feeding that night, but the constant heat of Sock’s shoulder against his more than made up for it. 

The night was clear, and, past the glare of the light on the window, Jonathan could see the stars glimmering, bright white against deep blue. The residents of Judd, he thought, had probably been able to see that sky every night, even before the apocalypse. He almost envied them before remembering that, for the moment, he and Sock were residents of Judd. 

Sock’s fingers tightened around Jonathan’s briefly before he got up to gather up their blankets. He draped Jonathan’s sheet over his head, hand lingering.

He didn’t envy the former residents of Judd at all. He had everything they had, plus Sock.

When it was time to bed down, Sock blew out the flame of the candle and wrapped his sheet around his shoulders. Jonathan lay back, squirming to get comfortable. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, watching the outline of Sock sinking onto the floor. “Good night.” 

“Hm.” Sock was silent, long enough for Jonathan to start worrying. Suddenly, a shuffling sound approached Jonathan’s right side, followed by frustrated hands lifting up Jonathan’s arm. 

Sock settled in against Jonathan’s side, resting his head on Jonathan’s chest and wrapping an arm up across his waist. He sighed, making minute rearrangements before relaxing, breath evening out. 

“G’night.”  
Jonathan slid his left hand up to rest over Sock’s, twisting their fingers together. 

No, there hadn’t been any grand finale. No, his world hadn’t changed. But, wrapping an arm loosely around Sock’s shoulder, feeling him leaning further into the touch, Jonathan felt what can be called the first inklings of love: nervous, shaking, uncertain, but warm and complete and remarkably whole. 

Sighing, he closed his eyes, travelling from one darkness to another.


	15. Jojo's Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO MUCH for all the comments on the last chapter!!! I'm glad you all liked it :D
> 
> In the meantime, back with Jojo and Lil. This is a monster of a chapter and I'm only kind of sorry about that.

Jojo wasn’t sure when Ramot had entered her frame of mind. It seemed like one minute the world was fine--terrible, but at least normal--and the next everything was ruined. In two days flat, her world was destroyed and she was left high and dry, just another refugee on the run from certain doom at the hands of a virus she’d never heard of. 

But really, considering her luck’s track record, she wasn’t surprised.

She should’ve had a happy childhood. Her parents were married and rarely fought. Her siblings never abused her. The family made enough money to live comfortably in a decently-sized house. Hell, for a few summers they even had a pool in the backyard.

Everything should have been perfect, but no. Her fucking neighbor made sure that never happened.

Jojo could definitely recall the exact moment she met Napoleon Sowachowski. Back then, in preschool, he hadn’t worn that stupid hat, and his hair was free to go every which way. The first--and only--good thought she’d ever had about Napoleon had been about his hair. It was interesting; at least more so than her own dull blonde hair, neatly pulled back into pigtails. She remembered saying that she liked it. Napoleon smiled, a little too widely, and declared that they were friends.

And it all went downhill from there.

By the time they’d exited preschool, Jojo knew she’d made a mistake in befriending Napoleon. Long story short, he had a penchant for cruelty. The first time she’d ever seen a dead animal was thanks to him. He’d gone out onto the street and brought back a dead squirrel he’d peeled off the pavement. It had been run over by a car, it was the middle of a particularly warm summer, and the squirrel had been laying there for a week. All those factors made the tiny brown body disgusting enough, but then Napoleon had sat down on the curb, pulling Jojo down with him, and started yanking out the poor thing’s guts. 

She’d puked.

Her aversion to dead things didn’t seem to dissuade Napoleon from showing them to her every chance he got. In fact, if anything, he thought her frustration and nausea were funny. Or, rather, he found it amusing to tease her by waving dead slugs, worms, rabbits, squirrel, baby birds, dead anything, in front of her face. 

Jojo’s mother had been concerned, but about the wrong thing. “You need to stop puking,” she’d say. “It’s not good for your teeth.”

“Then make Napoleon stop showing me gross things!” the little Jojo would reply.

“Oh, honey. Just ignore him. He’s only teasing you because he likes you.” And then she’d push Jojo back outside into Napoleon’s grasp and her own personal level of Hell.

Later, in elementary school, Jojo would watch as Napoleon fawned over pictures of Orlando Bloom and seriously question whether Napoleon’s teasing had been flirting, as he mother suggested, or just an outlet for cruelty. 

Because Napoleon could be intensely mean. As a kid, he just never knew when to stop. As a teenager, he’d just ignored the notion of stopping altogether. All her most vivid childhood memories involved Napoleon being a little terror--squeezing the guts out of slugs, beheading her Barbie dolls with scissors, dumping maggots into her mashed potatoes.

It had been a goddamn blessing when her father’s job forced them to move away. Jojo had been thirteen at the time, with no friends to speak of. Except Napoleon, her mother would remind her, with a wink and a nudge. Jojo never hated her mom more than when they were discussing Napoleon. Somehow, in her mother’s mind, utter disgust transformed into romantic attachment, and she often asked Napoleon if he had his eye on any girls, all while glancing meaningfully towards Jojo. 

It was enough to make her sick.

Life after they’d moved had been okay. Everything was fine. At least that’s what Jojo kept telling herself when her parents’ yelling kept her up all night and her older sister snuck back into their shared bedroom reeking of weed and cheap beer. It was what she told herself when her younger brother met her outside his school covered with bruises and pants torn at the knees. It was what she told herself in Health class when she noticed the guy across the aisle looking at her chest during the Sex-Ed presentation. It was what she told herself when, after nine horrible months, her mother, now 40, gave birth to another little girl, with very little fanfare. It was what she told herself when she realized that her father refused to pick the new baby up at all.

Two years into high school and Jojo was a full-blown cynic. She’d decided, at the ripe age of fifteen, that the world was terrible and that people were terrible, and that if everything just ended and people started dropping like flies, she’d start doing jigs on the mass graves.

Of course, that was before everything ended and people actually did start dropping like flies.

Jojo felt like she’d spent most of the apocalypse moving very, very fast while staying very, very still. Like if she moved too quickly, the world would come crashing down, burying her under the rubble and the weight of millions of corpses. But she couldn’t just stop. If she stopped, she’d die. Up until the moment she’d met Providence her post-apocalypse life had been a daze, just one continuous desire to walk away and keep walking until she collapsed from exhaustion and died. 

Really, she owed Providence her life--she’d given Jojo a place to stay, food, water, healthcare, even a few friends (albeit old friends--most of the people at Lake Prudence were over 30).

She was really starting to wonder, though, as she trudged alongside Lil and shivered her ass off, if her luck had conned her into yet another horrible situation.

“Fuck, I’m cold.”

Lil’s initial response was a strangled groan, followed closely by, “I know, dammit. You’ve only said it like, ten times.”

“Well, it’s kinda a problem.”

“I swear to God, we will stop at the nearest house and find a fucking jacket or a blanket or something. As long as you shut up.”

Jojo pulled the sleeves of her thin flannel shirt down to her wrists. She could feel the hairs on her arms bristling every time the wind blew against her face. The two girls were still walking north--it felt like they had been for weeks--but the weather was getting worse with every passing hour. It wasn’t snowing, but Jojo swore she could smell the precipitation in the air. 

“If I die in a snowstorm just because you want to find your dumb cat, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Oh, please. It’s like, forty degrees out here.” Lil took her hands out of her jacket pockets and crossed her arms over her chest. “Where the fuck did you live that forty was cold?”

“The coast.” Hesitatingly, Jojo mimicked Lil’s posture. Huh. It was a little warmer.

“...Which coast?” 

“The Gulf coast.”

“Holy Hell, how’d you get all the way up here?”

That was a difficult question. She’d been asked it (or variations of it) many, many times, not least of all by Providence, who was still trying to piece together Jojo’s path from Louisiana to the upper Midwest with very little luck. Jojo still didn’t have an answer; mainly because she wasn’t sure herself. How did she get up here? It had to be at least 800 miles from her house. Or what was left of her house. 

“I walked, I think.” She was shivering again, goddammit. Why did wind ever have to be a thing that existed? Everything would be fine if not for the stupid breeze. 

“You think?” Abruptly, Lil unfolded her arms and casually flung one over Jojo’s shoulders. In any other situation, Jojo would have thrown the offending appendage away and started screaming her head off; but the warmth steadily seeping its way through the fabric into her skin was too good to pass up. Even for principle. In the meantime, Lil continued. “You don’t know?”

“Well, I remember walking. A lot of walking.” Another breeze kicked up, and she wriggled a little deeper into Lil’s body heat. “But I think I was in a car at some point, too? I remember watching powerlines out a window.” She also remembered driving over roads choked with bodies and the sickening crunch of bones under the wheels. She remembered dry-heaving over the steering wheel, unable to puke because there was nothing in her stomach, and that it had been that way for days. 

“Please tell me you’ve at least seen snow before.” The grass on both sides of the road began to bend violently and Jojo felt Lil tighten her hold even further. “I don’t wanna have to explain how it’s made, mostly because I don’t know.”

“I’ve seen snow before!” Jojo pulled away, indignant, and just as quickly dove back into the space nearest Lil’s body. Big mistake. Still too fucking cold. “It’s just been a while.”

“How long we talkin’ here?”

“Um...six--no. Five. Five years. That’s when we moved.”

“Why would anyone move to the Gulf. That’s the real question here.” Lil lifted the hand that had been resting atop Jojo’s shoulder and pointed off towards the right. “House at two o’clock.”

“Oh, thank God.” Jojo picked up her pace for about five seconds before realizing Lil wasn’t going to walk any faster. No point in sprinting if her furnace wasn’t coming along. “And, for the record, we moved because my dad got transferred to Baton Rouge.”

“Five years ago? Well, I suppose you were too young to know any better.”

“What’re you talking about. I was thirteen and happy as hell to move away.”

“...You’re eighteen?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

“No. I’m sixteen.” 

Jojo looked up into Lil’s face incredulously. Her skepticism slowly gave way to a shit-eating grin. “Hi, Sixteen. I’m Joane.”

“Oh, no. You only get to do that if you’re a dad. And over the age of 40.”

Finally, they stepped foot on the driveway and approached the house. It turned out to be the first in a long line of houses, most of which were identical to the first, with some minor differences in paint color. This particular house was grey, with dull blue shutters on either side of every window. A few of the glass panes were cracked, but none were broken that Jojo could see. Starting somewhere along the middle of one side, a wooden fence blocked the view of the backyard.

And the goddamn front door was locked.

“Fucking dumbass people locking their fucking doors…” Jojo was angrily mumbling to herself as she twisted the door handle and pushed with her shoulder, all in vain. The thing didn’t even budge. As she continued to curse the former tenants--seriously, who locked their door during the apocalypse? rude--she absently neglected to notice the sudden return of frigid air to her upper arms and neck, or the gentle clack of the gat on the left side of the house sliding open.

In fact, she was so focused on cracking the door open that she didn’t notice Lil’s absence until she had returned. Just as Jojo brought her shoulder back down onto the door, the deadbolt she’d been fighting glided noiselessly out of place and she found herself falling into the entryway. 

More accurately, onto the person standing in the entryway. More accurate still, into the chest of the person standing in the entryway, which as it turned out, belonged to Lil, who was giggling at Jojo’s rampant misfortune.

Not that Jojo was complaining. This close to Lil’s central body heat, she could almost feel her face again. 

“Lemme guess,” Jojo sighed, the sound muffled by Lil’s boobs. “The back door was open.”

“Yep.”

“And I’m an idiot.”

“Indeed.” Lil, still smirking, looked down and cocked an eyebrow. “Comfy down there?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay, but I thought we were getting you a jacket or something.”

“Right!” Jojo’s head snapped up from her pillow, narrowly avoiding knocking Lil in the jaw. “Where the fuck’s the closet?”

After finding the coat closet--a very narrow affair that made Jojo grateful, for the first time, that she’d shed so much weight since leaving home--Lil left her companion to wrestle with the wire hangers by herself, wandering further through the house and quietly closing the back door. 

The inside of the house was much the same as the outside. Even the color scheme, in certain rooms, was identical. Dark wood made up most of the floor, with only occasional islands of carpeting. Everything covered one floor--living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom--and Lil purposely avoided the shadowy stairs to the basement.

There were two very noticeable things about the interior of the house: first, everything was covered in a thin film of dust, even the tiny seashell shaped soaps in the bathroom; and two, there were so personal items that, for a moment, Lil thought the house might be a rental. But no, there was a lady’s razor on the sink and snarky magnets on the fridge. Next to the stereo, a few CD cases let Lil know that the woman who used to live there had very bad taste in music.

With the lake so close, she could only come to one conclusion.

“So,” she called up to the front hallway, “how do you like the summer home?”

Jojo’s reply was preceded by a loud bang, the jangle of metal, and at least two curse words. “It has shit selection for coats.”

“What’d you expect? People don’t wear coats during the summer.” 

Footsteps signaled Jojo’s approach to the kitchen, and Lil slapped her hands over her mouth in a poor attempt to stifle her laughter.

“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Laugh all you want.” Jojo picked at the cloth of the jacket, not even trying to mask her disgust. The coat--a windbreaker, actually--was bright-ass yellow and stained with pale brown spots. It was much too big on Jojo, which made her look like she was trying to pass off a tent as clothing. 

“God, it’s just so. Just so.” Lil burst into a fresh round of giggles.

“I think the word you’re searching for is, ‘fugly’.” 

“Dang, haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“Yeah, well, I’m old. Apparently. Out of the way, whippersnapper.” Jojo pushed past her, making a beeline for the stairs to the basement.

Lil’s laughter died in the middle of her throat. “I don’t think we should go down there.”

“But there might be more stuff down there.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about it, Jojo. Please?”

“Well, since you are but a wee babe, I suppose you don’t have to come along.” Jojo descended the first step. “But I was kinda hoping you would.” There was the barest hint of nervousness in her words, and Lil took it as her cue to follow. Probably best not to leave Jojo alone, especially in a place that wasn’t resonating well with Lil. True, Jojo could probably take care of herself if anything went wrong, but still.

Better safe than very sorry and also maybe dead.

The girls’ footsteps were muffled by the dingy grey carpet as they plunged down into the darkness of the stairwell. Before Jojo could swing open the door at the landing, Lil gently pushed ahead and dug a lighter out of her jeans. She pushed down the starter and watched Jojo’s face become illuminated by the biny orange flame; her features thrown into stark contrast that made her look even more sullen than usual.

Lil opened the door with one hand and swung the lighter low with the other. There was one last step into the basement. It was small, but that didn’t stop her from taking Jojo’s hand and guiding her down.

Two windows, high on the wall, should have provided natural light to the basement, but Lil noted that they were swimming in a mire of mud and slime--the results of all the rain. The basement was separated into two rooms by a thin faux-wood wall, which had a small door on the left side. The whole thing was barely attached to anything, and shook when Lil’s feet hit the floor. The floor itself was the same dark wood they’d seen upstairs, only here, without the benefit of daylight, the boards glimmered, almost as if they were made up of void. Looking down at them gave Lil vertigo, and she resolutely stared at the flame of the lighter to calm her stomach. 

A few boxes were scattered around the room, but a cursory glance provided all the information Lil needed to pass up further investigation. The labels were clear and neat: Magazines. July 4 Decorations. Photos. 

In the meantime, Jojo was pressing closer and closer to Lil’s side, making free movement almost impossible. Finally, after almost tripping over Jojo’s feet for the second time, Lil snatched the shorter girl’s hand in her own and marched for the door in the wall.

“Lil.”

“You’re gonna have to get it, Miss ‘I Have the Only Free Hand Available’.”

“No, Lil, do you smell that?”

Of course she did. She’d inhaled it from Day One of the apocalypse; a badly separated perfume of flowers and fruit and rotting flesh. A sickly-sweet scent that burned and rolled its way into the back of your throat.

“Body.” Sighing, Lil forced Jojo away from her side, holding her at arm's length until she was standing in the middle of the first room. “Stay there. Don’t look.” With that, she opened a narrow gap in the doorway, slid in, and shut up the room.

The first few minutes alone in the dark were fine; but, then again, they always were. It was when everything settled in that Jojo started to get nervous. She’d never been great with small, dark spaces. Hell, this was her first solo scouting assignment, and in the days before she met Lil, Jojo had spent each night dozing off until she heard some nose and began imagining all the terrible things that could happen to her--maybe it was a fire, or a wolf, or a huge man-eating cat. Right now, the illusory echoes of a rat’s pittering steps rang from the darkened corners, drowning out the harsh crinkle of fabric and the roar of blood in her ears. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed; the world looked the same either way.

“Lil?” Her voice sounded small and distant. She tried again, a little louder. “Lil?”

When said girl popped out of the second room not five seconds later, Jojo breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God. I’m pretty sure the rats were about to eat me.”

In the dim light, Jojo could just make out Lil’s eyes rolling. “There aren’t any rats down here. What would they even eat?”

“Uh, me?”

“Yeah, okay.” Lil stepped out of the doorway and quietly shut it behind her. “I think it’s the lady who owned this house.” She took up Jojo’s hand again and pulled her up to the lone step and through the stairwell door. Once back on the landing, Lil flipped the lighter closed. “Let’s get one thing straight, here: we’re not burying her. You don’t touch her.”

“Wasn’t really planning to, but fine.”

“Good. This entire planet’s a graveyard as it is. We’ll look for more supplies, but then we should go.”

Walking back up the stairs, Jojo breathed deeply. Before, the air on the ground floor had seemed stagnant; compared to the basement, it was heavenly. Stopping in the kitchen, Jojo hopped up on one of the counters and sat down while Lil started sorting through the cupboards. Over the clinking of dishes, she asked, “Have you ever dug a grave before, anyway?”

Lil set a stack of plates in the sink, disturbing a spiderweb. “No.” Who would she have buried, anyway? She’d abandoned everything she loved months ago. By now, the only remains would be bones. Or ashes, if they’d burned. 

She had a brief and terrible vision of her mother and Cleo, burning and melting.

Snapping back to reality just in time to hear Jojo scoff, Lil sighed and hauled herself up onto the counter as well. Their shoulders knocked together as she rearranged her legs. For a second, she could swear Jojo even leaned into the touch. 

When she’d settled, Jojo continued. “Grave digging’s harder than it looks.”

“Oh, and you know this?”

“Yep.”

Lil’s heart sank a bit. So even someone as crude as Jojo had managed to at least lay someone to rest. “Who?”

“Iverson.” Jojo leaned back against the cupboard doors, smirking. “My fish.”

Resisting the temptation to smack her palm against her forehead was difficult, but Lil managed. From the rampant giggles at her side, it was the effect Jojo was aiming for. 

“Why’d you bury him? I thought you were supposed to flush fish.” She flicked a spider off her pants without fanfare, still too exasperated to even squeak. 

“Iverson was a koi fish. My little brother named him.” Jojo’s brow wrinkled briefly. “Actually, I don’t think we ever found out if Iverson was a boy or a girl.”

“I’m sure Iverson didn’t mind all that much.” Lil lowered her hands from her lap onto the counter, vaguely surprised that Jojo didn’t pull away when their fingers brushed up against each other. “And you had a brother? Lucky.”

Jojo’s change in expression was immediate and distressing. “Yeah. Really lucky.” She sniffed, then stated, bluntly as could be: “He’s dead now.”

“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.” Moving her hand just a bit, Lil squeezed Jojo’s fingers once before hopping down from the counter. “I’m gonna grab you a blanket from the bedroom.”

“Wha-” A little slow on the uptake, Jojo jogged after Lil. “I don’t need a blanket, that’s why I’m wearing this dumb jacket in the first pl-oof!” Her words were cut short by a square of fleece hitting her square in the face. Before she could even struggle to remove the offending fabric, Lil’s hands were arranging the blanket around Jojo’s shoulders, tucking in stray corners until the smaller girl’s entire body was snugly contained. 

Lil stood back and looked down into Jojo’s disgruntled face. “Aww, you look like an angry burrito.” 

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, no chance of that, Burrito.” Turning back to the bed she’d pulled the blanket from, Lil stripped another piece from the mattress, wrapping it around her own shoulders. “I actually think we should stay here tonight.”

“Oh, and why’s that? You’re in love with the interior decoration?” Jojo shot a pointed glare at the drab walls, devoid of photos and paintings.

“No, I just thought it would be nice to sleep in a place with working locks, for once.” Falling backwards, Lil relished the bounce of the bedsprings. “Plus, mattress.”

Peeking up at her companion, Lil could tell Jojo was already convinced, if the desirous look she was sending towards the bed was any indication.

\------

Later, when the light outside had finally died, the girls crawled into opposite sides of the bed. Lil’s back was practically crying from happiness. Rolling to face Jojo, she smiled into the darkness. 

“G’night, Burrito.”

“Good night, and I swear if you say ‘burrito’ one more time, I’m going to kick you.”

“Oh dear. That sounds painful.”

“It will be.”

 

 

“...Burrito. OW.”

\------

_Once upon a time, the World came to an end._

_A cat named Cleo lived alone in the forest, near a pool of water that remained clear and fresh throughout every season. Within the pool swam many fish of many colors, of all shapes and sizes. Although Cleo could not speak with the fish, she adored them. They were not food to her; they were her dearest friends. She named each and every one of them, from the tiniest minnow to the largest sturgeon._

_Cleo’s favorite was a beautiful koi fish, whom she had named Iverson. Iverson always swam up to the edge of the pool whenever Cleo was near. They played together for hours on end; were sad to see the other go. Still Cleo was certain that she would see Iverson every day, shortly after dawn, for the rest of time. It was what she wanted more than anything else in the world._

_But then the fish began to die. The disease that massacred them was silent and strong, a predator that swam through the water and into their very cells. Destroyed from the inside, the fish of the pool had no choice but to float, belly-up, to the surface, staining the water with their death. Cleo cried over each and every one, but did not dare to touch them. She was afraid, you see. Afraid that the sickness would infect her in contact; that her body would have no choice but to float, belly-up, and stain the waters with her death._

_Weeks passed, until all the fish were dead. All but one--Iverson, swimming close to shore, frantically turning back and forth in the agony of death. Cleo watched, helpless. She could not even cry--all her tears were used up on the others, and now there were none left for the one fish that mattered the most._

_Iverson stilled, and Cleo prayed for a miracle--with no luck. He was dead, floating, belly-up, to stain the waters with his death.  
Suddenly, Cleo stood. She wouldn’t allow this to happen. If Iverson must die, his body would not pollute his own home. Instead, it should rot in hers. Claws digging deep into the soil, she dug a grave for her friend, shallow and wide. _

_Taking up Iverson’s body in her mouth, careful not to puncture his delicate scales with her teeth, Cleo took him to the hole she had dug and laid him down. Then she covered him with layers of dirt; the very blankets of the Earth._

_By the time she had finished, Cleo felt the disease creeping into her throat. Perhaps the fish had been fortunate; they had been destroyed from the inside out, unable to see the approach of their dooms. For Cleo, the sickness spread from her skin, worming itself into her mouth and muscles and bones._

_Dying, she lay on Iverson’s grave, the boils bursting every time she gasped for breath. After many agonizing hours, she died._

_They see each other every day, shortly before dawn, in the stars; feline curled around fish, together in death._


	16. Settling In (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck this is late. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
> 
> Also sorry
> 
> 'Settling In' will have four parts, with a one chapter in between 2 and 3 for Lil and Jojo. 
> 
> This one's a little shorter than usual, but please enjoy :D

The air was bitterly cold when Sock woke up the first time, in the earliest hours of the morning. Slowly coming into consciousness, he inhaled deeply, feeling the tingling, burning start of a sore throat on the back of his tongue. His next breath was filled with the scent of Jonathan--the acrid smell of sweat mixed almost enticingly with natural musk. By the third intake of air, he was mostly awake, keenly aware of the warm chest rising and falling underneath his cheek; the gentle thrum of a heartbeat in his ear. 

It was all very perfect.

A little too perfect, actually.

Sock opened one eye, the one not currently pressed into teenage boy. The view wasn’t all that much different, save the vague outline of Jonathan’s stomach. He pressed closer to his sleeping companion, relishing every inch of contact between their bodies--fitting them together like puzzle pieces, this edge here and that crook there--while he began to wonder:

_What have I done?_

He wasn’t sure what brought on this train of thought--maybe the high of confessing had finally subsided; maybe waking up so close to the object of his affection jolted something in his head; maybe he was finally coming to his senses. 

But no, it was probably because the things he was enjoying so much now--the pulse resounding comfortingly in his ears, the heat he couldn’t get close enough to, the rhythmic inhale and exhale--all these things reminded him of something a little disturbing.

This was a body. It was made of muscles and ligaments and bones and organs and he knew exactly how to destroy it. How to make that heart stop beating, the heat fade to rigor, the breathing cut short. He could reach back for his knife right now and make each of those things happen. He’d done it before. He’d done it probably hundreds of times. 

A little bubble of panic started to rise in his throat. What reason did Jonathan have to put up with this? With him? Just because he’d decided to leave the Demons--a decision he was still not 100% certain about--didn’t suddenly make him an Angel. He’d killed people, a lot of people. People with bodies just like this one. With hearts and lungs and warm blood that he’d spilled over his hands. 

It took no small amount of effort to keep his arms in place, to prevent himself from pushing away. 

Instead, he tried to clear up his head, to reason himself out of every new idea. If Jonathan was a body, he was the best body. More precious than Sock’s own. He would do anything to protect it. 

With that thought in mind, providing what little comfort it could, Sock snuggled back into Jonathan’s side and sank back into sleep.

\------

Waking up the next morning went smoothly enough for Jonathan: one minute he was dreaming and the next he was staring at the weird water stains in the ceiling. Not much different from any other day in the last week, except for the static in his right arm and the head using his chest as a pillow. His heart skipped a little, realizing that he could totally roll over, engulf Sock entirely, and shower his face with kisses. Not that he was going to, but he could. Swallowing hard, he tilted his head to look down at Sock, prepared to marvel at his partner’s sleeping features and--

And he wasn’t prepared for the drool, but in hindsight, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

After rolling his eyes and smacking his free hand to his forehead, Jonathan poked Sock’s cheek. “Hey.” Sock’s only response was to snort in his sleep and curl up closer. Sighing a laugh, Jonathan tried again, poking a little harder this time. “Hey, Sock. Wake up.” This time, Sock opened his eyes a bit before releasing a tiny moan and trying to burrow back into his living body pillow. Jonathan raised his voice a little and resumed poking. “Wake up and stop drooling on my shirt.”

That appeared to wake Sock up enough to raise his head and peek down at the puddle on Jonathan’s shoulder. He paused, seemed to think about actually moving so Jonathan could change clothes, then shrugged and flopped back down. Immediately, he shot back up, whining. “Eew, it’s cold!”

Jonathan snorted, gently pushing at Sock’s shoulder. “Get off of me.” The smaller boy rolled off easily, sitting up groggily as Jonathan scooched over to his bag, yanking out the t-shirt he’d taken from one of the houses a few days earlier. Stripping off his hoodie, he shivered a little, feeling the hairs on his arms raise in goosebumps. He was about to grab the back of his old t-shirt--stained beyond repair and full of holes--and pull it over his head when he noticed that Sock had become very still. 

Glancing back, Jonathan was surprised (and more than a little gratified) to find a very pink-faced Sock, looking much like a deer in the proverbial headlights. Or perhaps not so proverbial. Good lord, he didn’t know his skin could get this pale. It was almost impressive. 

“What’s up?” Jonathan snagged the back of his shirt, pulling it forward a bit, enough to expose his lower back. Sock opened his mouth, only to come up silent. Smirking, Jonathan slid the shirt the rest of the way off. Teasing was turning out to be pretty fun. 

It had better be, considering that he was now half naked and freezing his ass off.

“I--I, uh.” Sock started moving his hands around in vague circles. “Um, I think.” He took a deep breath, and Jonathan leaned forward a bit, raising an expectant eyebrow. “I think I need some water.” And with that, he shot up to his feet, tripped not once, but twice over his sheet, and bolted for the back of the store, leaving Jonathan to silently die of laughter. 

Pulling the new shirt on, Jonathan sighed in relief at the warmth. His hoodie still had a sizable wet spot on it, but he put it back on anyway. Thinking back, Sock had said it was mid-November when they’d first met. How long ago was that? A few weeks, maybe. So now it was probably the beginning of December. No wonder his nose kept running in the morning. 

Scooting over to the bag with food, Jonathan picked up a bag of chips, craning his neck to see the coolers in the back. Maybe he’d taken it a little too far? “Sock?” 

The sudden clack of one of the cooler doors opening and closing signaled the return of activity. Sock walked to the front cautiously, looking almost a little relieved to see Jonathan fully clothed again. “Sorry! I spaced out a little.”

Shaking his head, Jonathan popped a chip in his mouth and accepted a bottle of water from Sock. After breakfast and some pain killers, Sock got up, reaching down to help Jonathan to his feet. Getting off the floor was the hardest part of having a bum ankle--Jonathan had to push himself up using only his right foot, which was starting to feel a little sore. The only way to make it any easier was for Sock to take part of the weight for him, acting as a lever. This morning, after grabbing Sock’s hand and preparing to lift, Jonathan got a terrible idea.

A terribly brilliant idea.

To be fair, Sock saw it coming from a mile away. But he couldn’t do anything to stop it, not with Jonathan yanking his hand forward in a vice grip. He had just enough time to yelp before crashing down onto Jonathan’s chest, rather hard. 

“Jonathan!” Sock smacked the taller boy’s arm as said boy devolved into a fit of snickering. “How many times are you gonna do this?”

“Oh, I dunno. Until you stop falling for it.” There was a pause of all of two seconds before they both realized the pun. Sock smacked his forehead while Jonathan tried to poke him into laughter. It took a minute, but he finally succeeded, and Sock released a giggling, exasperated, “Oh my God!” before staring directly down into Jonathan’s face.

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not. Funny.”

“Oh, really? You’re laughing.”

“That’s because I’m looking at your dumb face.”

“Excuse you. My face is not dumb.”

“It is when you’re making the ‘I Just Made a Pun’ face.”

“That’s a face?”

“You made it one, Hot Stuff.”

“Hmm, my greatest accomplishment.” Jonathan snaked his arms around Sock’s back, rubbing small circles with his fingers into the muscles. One hand moved up slowly, close to cradling the back of Sock’s neck, and he could feel their faces moving closer, closer--

Sock stopped short, a few inches from Jonathan’s lips. If he’d been looking for it, Jonathan might have spotted the flash of panic in Sock’s eyes, brief and intense. He sighed, pressed his face down into Jonathan’s shoulder, and mumbled, “We should get going.”

A bit disappointed, Jonathan shrugged. “What’re we doing today, anyway?”

He felt Sock sigh into his shoulder. “Looking through other people’s stuff.” Suddenly, Sock raised himself off of Jonathan’s torso, pushing up to his feet and dragging Jonathan along. Once standing, he slung one of Jonathan’s arms over his shoulders and hurried them out the door.

It wasn’t until the late afternoon--after a solid five hours of back-and-forth banter and little touches and a near miss on the stairs--that Sock was finally alone, standing in the burnt-up kitchen of the second house. He flexed his hands, trying to rid them of the sensation that had been bothering him. 

They had been so close and Sock wanted it--God knows he did--but just before he was about to lean in and close the final few inches, he moved his hand up on Jonathan’s chest, up over his ribcage. 

The pulse under his fingertips had leapt while his stomach lurched.

Picking through the drawers, Sock listened intently to the sound of Jonathan shuffling through the bookshelves in the living room and felt every organ in his body drop through the floor as a voice that sounded menacingly like Troy whispered:

_You don’t deserve him, murderer. What have you done?_

\------

Jonathan tried. Oh, how he tried.

He’d tried getting a kiss out of Sock five times over the last week and each attempt only resulted in new and exciting methods of failure.

The first few times, he thought maybe it was payback for the t-shirt thing--what better way to repay teasing than with teasing, right? Problem was, he only got more and more frustrated every time Sock pulled back. Each time the build-up made his head spin--the intense thrill of touch, skin to skin, the brush of Sock’s breath on his cheeks, the brilliant flash of green eyes meeting his own--and each time the let-down sent his heart plummeting into his stomach. 

If anything good--anything at all--had come out of the last week, it was that they were falling slowly into a routine. In the morning, they woke up tangled together under sheets that had started out separate in the evening and merged during the night. Sometimes there was drool involved. They got up and ate breakfast. Once, Sock had smeared Cheeto dust on Jonathan’s cheek and an all-out war had started, only ending when they were both out of breath and covered in orange. Getting it all off had been a nightmare. Worth it, though, if only for the sound of Sock’s laughter ringing out loud and clear, bouncing off the walls. 

They spent the days sorting through the contents of the two houses of Judd, usually one day in each room. Sock carefully steered them both clear of the RV, the smell from which was beginning to subside with the onset of frequent frosts. One day, they’d even gone to the bar, wrinkling their noses at the stale smell of cigarettes smoked long ago. There was still alcohol behind the counter, surprisingly. Jonathan thought the residents of Judd would’ve taken it all with them and spend the apocalypse getting drunk on Bud Light. 

He wished he could say that they’d been completely responsible and passed up the bottles without second thoughts, but that would be a lie. They tried to split a beer but couldn’t get through half. The buzz had been nice, though.

Although not nice enough to take the sting out of Sock lowering his head, again, and leaving Jonathan high and dry and very much not kissed. 

Not that he was getting desperate or anything. Not that this was his first kiss, if you counted that one time Mildred Hathgow had taken a dare in second grade. Which, at this point, Jonathan was entirely willing to do even though it had knocked out one of his teeth. 

...Fine. A little desperate.

All he wanted to do was grab Sock’s face and smash their lips together and get it over with. Maybe if he just bit the bullet and did it, Sock would stop trying to be so damn coy. Knock whatever hesitation he had right out the window so he they could just kiss each other awake in the mornings and to sleep at night. 

But there was something very wrong about that idea. The first few times--sure, maybe it was teasing. But by number four, or five? 

There was something very wrong going on here, and Jonathan had no idea how to find out what it was. Sock was keeping their conversations light and mostly impersonal, dodging every serious question directed his way with disturbing expertise. Sometimes, when Sock wandered off leaving Jonathan alone, he would claw at the air in frustration. Everything had been going so well, too. What changed?

He really hoped it wasn’t anything he’d done. He didn’t think so, but who the fuck knew? How did dating work, anyway? He hadn’t known, even before the world ended. 

The only things he knew were that one, he wanted to get his first kiss (fine, fine--Mildred Hathgow didn’t count); and two, Sock was making things very, very hard.

In more ways than one, sometimes. 

No! No, not going there. Not while they were laying next to each other and trying to sleep. The last he needed was a wet dream to make this situation worse.

Sock, meanwhile, cuddled closer to Jonathan’s side, curling his hands up close to his face. He’d started sleeping without his hat on, and sometimes an errant cowlick tickled against Jonathan’s cheek, bending back and forth in steady tandem with Jonathan’s breathing. Keeping as still as possible, Jonathan looked down at Sock. He wished he could say that Sock’s sleeping face was cute, but it really wasn’t. Sock was at his most adorable when he was awake and laughing and bouncing off the walls. When he slept, the bags underneath his eyes became very apparent and his eyebrows knit together, giving him a look of permanent sleeping concern. 

Moving very slowly, Jonathan tilted his head down, preparing to graze his lips across Sock’s forehead--surely that had to be okay, right?--when suddenly a second pair of eyes opened in the darkness. Sock looked up blearily into Jonathan’s face, and, resigned, the taller boy pulled away and rested his chin on Sock’s hair instead. 

“Y’kay?” Sock mumbled, nestling his nose into the crook of Jonathan’s neck.

“Fine.” Jonathan lifted one of his hands and ran it through Sock’s hair, detangling a few knots as he went. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Still sleepy, Sock shrugged, trying to recall what, exactly, had him so on edge and--oh, yes.

How the hell was he supposed to open that one can of beans. The one about killing people. He thought about bringing it up pretty often--every evening, actually--but he had yet to find the pathway that wouldn’t result in awkward questions that he didn’t want to answer. Questions like, ‘How many people have you killed?’ and ‘How long have you been doing this?’ and ‘Who was the first person you killed?’. 

Troy’s voice hissed every answer, sardonically: _‘Well, you see, Jon, I’ve been killing things all my life, but eight months ago, the first person I ever killed was my father…’_

Yeah, like that would go over well.

Instead, Sock shrugged and pulled Jonathan closer. Maybe, if he got close enough, he would be able to feel the little quirks, the idiosyncrasies that made Jonathan’s body different from the other ones. 

He knew it wouldn’t; that, at the baseline, all human bodies are alike, but the hope was there.

They lay for a while in silence, long enough for Sock to start drifting off again, when Jonathan took a deep breath and said, “You know, if anything’s bothering you. Just tell me.”

Sock bit his lip, face still buried in Jonathan’s shoulder. “I know.”

That seemed to placate Jonathan, for now. He nuzzled his nose into Sock’s hair, planting a gentle kiss atop his head that sent jolts of electricity straight into his gut. “G’night.”

“Night.” Sock felt Jonathan relax, slowly. 

And again, Troy’s voice: _How could someone as wonderful as this ever love someone as horrible as you?_

The answer, Sock’s own, was immediate and sickening. _They can’t._


	17. Settling In (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is so late D: I got caught up with Sockathan week, if that makes it any better >.>;;
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments, btw! I know some of you guys were getting anxious that I'd abandoned this fic. Don't worry, if I did that, I have at least two people who would kill me and then bring me back to life just so I could finish this.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy ;)

At some point in the past, Sock was pretty sure he’d loved his dad. Some of his favorite memories were made with him; riding home from school in the front seat with the windows down, mocking the ads on the radio while his father cursed other drivers under his breath. 

Things had started going south during middle school, when Sock discovered that there were words to attach to his growing, and exclusive, interest in boys. For a while after he came out, in eighth grade, his father simply didn’t talk to him. Eventually, they worked all the way up to one-and-two-word answers. Nothing harsh, necessarily, just awkward. 

And then high school had happened, and Sock had gotten a crush on a boy, and his father had started with the yelling. The gist of the matter was that his dad didn’t want to hear about it, and Sock refused to stop talking. They’d argued a lot during Sock’s freshman and sophomore years, and it was during that time that two things happened: first, a fight between son and father had escalated to a broken wrist and a visit to the hospital; second, his mother’s heart had started failing, according to the doctors, due to stress. 

Sock couldn’t pinpoint the moment he began losing love for his dad, but he could definitely tell when it ended, when all affection had run out and he just started hating the man. 

Three months. They had spent three months on that god-forsaken pig farm, and then they had moved again, without a destination in mind other than ‘away from here’. Ramot always seemed to be very close, always too close for his father’s comfort. Uncle Robert had come along this time, and he had a friend. A female friend, actually; a waitress from the bar in the nearest town. She was easily in her late forties and always wore too much makeup, but she was okay. Nice, if a little dense. Sock’s first real acquaintance with sex had come from hearing Uncle Robert and his girlfriend humping each other in the back of the truck, two times a week, like clockwork. But the woman was polite, occasionally even funny, and she was the only person Sock didn’t despise after his mother died. 

He’d listened to her calling out to him from the tent during the storm, telling him to come inside and sleep. He ignored her, and after five minutes, he heard the tent door zip closed. That had been a bad night, all tears and screaming and watching violet lightning flash across the sky while the rain lashed against his face and the thunder drowned out his sobs. 

And the first thing his father had said in the morning, when the last storm-clouds drifted out to the horizon, was “Napoleon, that was a very immature thing to do.”

“Sorry,” he’d spat, “I actually feel bad about my mom dying. Unlike some people.”

“You think I’m not sad about Elvira? She was my wife!”

“You’re not as sad as you should be.” Sock had sniffled, wiped off his cheek, and croaked out the truth he’d been mulling over all night. “It’s your fault she’s dead.”

That set something off in his father. The yelling lasted for ten minutes straight, his voice cracking and fraying at the edges as he justified himself: Elvira had a bad heart, she ran out of pills, it was bound to happen sooner or later, it wasn’t his fault, goddammit, it wasn’t!  
To which Sock had simply and coldly replied, “You could’ve gone to a hospital.” 

“That’s where Ramot is! What was I supposed to do, risk letting us all die of a fucking virus that’s taking over the entire goddamn world, just because Elvira was out of pills?”

“Yes!” This time it was Sock who was screaming, and he felt his vocal chords sting with the exertion. “Because you knew she’d die otherwise! But no, Ramot might be there, so we have to run the other fucking direction! Did you ever stop to think that we might get tired of running? Because I am! And so was she!” He gestured frantically out into the woods, where they’d buried the body the day before. “And now my mother is dead because you’re a fucking coward!” 

His father had stepped up, hand raised to bring down hard on the side of Sock’s face, and something dark bubbled in his stomach, made him intercept the blow as it fell, made him strangle and crush his father’s wrist. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” His voice felt low and quiet, deeper than he’d thought it could go. Everything in his body felt tense, ready to jump at the slightest provocation; every muscle a wire prepared to snap, every nerve on fire. The dark thing twisted in his gut, poisoned every breath he took, sank into his heart with every beat. 

It was only when his father took a step back, swallowing hard and eyes wide, that Sock blinked, releasing the limb in his hand. Without another word, his dad had run back to their car, climbing inside and slamming the door shut. The sound of metal scraping on metal drew Sock’s attention to the side, where Uncle Robert was trying to push his girlfriend back with one hand and grab his gun out of the truck bed with the other. 

“What?” It was an honest, confused question, but the syllable made both adults jump, harshly. The waitress was the first to step forward towards him, enveloping him in an awkward but well-meaning hug, whispering ‘it’s okay, everything’ll be okay’, more to herself than to him.   
It was the first time in his life that Sock had felt rage; that he knew he had the power to make people afraid of him, that he could direct pure hatred into something terrifying and beautiful. Inside his coat, the knife he’d stolen from Uncle Robert’s house yearned to be turned loose, to sink deep into flesh and draw blood. 

Two weeks after that, he found out how easy it was to kill something you loathe. 

\------

Sock took to watching Jonathan in the mornings, before they got up. Everything in Jonathan’s face smoothed out when he slept; sometimes, he almost looked peaceful. He never smiled in his sleep, which Sock appreciated, for the moment. It made making up his mind much easier.

He had to go. For Jonathan’s own good. Everything stacked up just wrong: Sock’s past with killing people, Jonathan’s lack of and desire for human contact, the Demons leaving him fewer and fewer options, the snow that Sock could now smell in the air whenever he walked outside. 

For a while, he tried convincing himself that he wasn’t in love with Jonathan. It didn’t work very well; every time the blond so much as smiled, Sock’s heart did somersaults in his chest. When they touched, cuddling at night, he counted the sparks dashing down his spine in between the dull thuds of their synchronized heartbeats. 

Then he tried to convince himself that Jonathan didn’t actually like him; that whenever the taller boy poked him awake in the mornings, he was actually annoyed beyond belief. That his constant need to touch Sock’s skin stemmed only from a want for warmth as the frosts crept in. That whenever he started leaning in and looking at Sock’s lips, he was secretly relieved when Sock pulled away. 

It didn’t work so well, either. 

So in the end, he just stared and studied every one of Jonathan’s features: his sallow-looking skin, his greasy hair, the straight line of his nose, the thin curve of his mouth. He was the most perfect being Sock had ever seen, and Jonathan was his, all his, and he was going to give him up. 

Everything in his brain told him to go, to disappear early in the morning without leaving a note. Better to make a clean break, he reasoned, than to try and tie up the loose ends. Just go back home, apologize for being gone so long, and take up another mission. _Go back to killing, Sock,_ the insidious voice whispered. _It’s what you do best, after all._

But every time he tried to make his legs move, to get up and start packing his things, his chest started to sting. He wanted to stay just a few more minutes, look at Jonathan one last time, settle in beside him for one more night before he left. Sometimes, he thought about kissing Jonathan goodbye. He never could.

And what would happen if he went back? He’d have to tell the truth, the one that Michael and Troy had probably already communicated, and then what? Mara would scold him for fucking up such a simple mission. Mephistopheles might sit him down to have a talk about taking responsibility for his actions. And Jonathan. 

Oh, God. Jonathan would be heartbroken. Not to mention immobile, since his broken ankle limited his movement. Sock thought about what he’d used to comfort himself a week beforehand: that Jonathan’s body was different from others because it was precious. He’d do anything to protect it.

Well, already failed at that.

Thinking made him hesitate more, and hesitation inevitably meant that Jonathan would wake up, say ‘good morning’, and Sock would put on a pretty face, smile and snuggle. In the back of his mind, though, was always the thought: _Go ahead, Sock. Disappoint everyone._

_It’s what you do best, after all._

\------

Halfway through the second week in Judd, Jonathan awoke to a very pensive looking Sock staring at his face. He blinked, trying to dispel the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, then muttered, “Wassup?”

He was expecting a shrug, a ‘not much’; maybe, if Sock was in the right mood, he’d lay back down and bathe Jonathan in warmth and soft touches. He hoped it was that last one. 

What he wasn’t expecting was a hard swallow and, in a scratchy whisper, “I think I should go.”

That woke Jonathan up, a bit. “Whaddya mean?”

“Like,” Sock sat up fully, twisting his fingers together, “away from here.” Jonathan was about to agree--Judd was getting a little tiring, after all--when Sock added, “Away from you.”

Immediately, Jonathan was up and alert, heart skipping sickeningly in his chest. “What?” He leaned over, trying to get a clear view of Sock’s face, to try and get the smaller boy to look him in the eye for just a minute, but Sock kept ducking his head lower and lower into his lap, until finally he just curled up in a ball. Sighing, Jonathan gave up. “Why?”

“It’s...it’s complicated.” Sock’s voice was small and soft coming from behind his knees, and Jonathan carefully scooted closer.

“What is?”

“I j--” Sock suddenly sat back up and flung his arms out, almost hitting Jonathan in the face. “--Sorry. Just, all of this! You, me! The fact that I am a horrible person who kills people for a living!”

“...Okay.”

“And, I don’t know. You’re just so wonderful--” here, Jonathan’s cheeks flushed, “--and you’ve been so nice to me and I don’t know what to do, because I…” Sock hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice cracked. “I’m no good for you.” 

“Sock, that’s not true. You saved me, just a couple weeks ago!”

“Yeah, but I was going to kill you! I meant to kill you when I met you and then something happened and I don’t even know what it was but I just.” Sock’s breathing became labored, and Jonathan could practically hear the tears building up in his throat. “You’re the best person I’ve met in a while, and I was going to kill you. I wanted to.” Finally, the first of the tears dripped out of his eyes. “You deserve anyone in the world, so please don’t choose me.” 

Jonathan reached out to brush Sock’s cheek, and the smaller boy jerked, hard, and started spitting out, “Don’t--!” He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and watering, as Jonathan retracted his hand. 

Sock curled back up into a ball, not even daring to peek at Jonathan’s face. He’d briefly--very briefly--entertained the idea of getting Jonathan to hate him and chase him away. At the time, he’d rejected it because, as he recalled from their first day together, seeing Jonathan angry at him sent bile up his throat. And now, without even thinking about it, he’d managed to get the job done.

Meanwhile, Jonathan was just confused. What the hell was Sock talking about? Sure, he was a Demon, and sure, he killed people--probably more than Jonathan ever cared to think about--but it wasn’t like the blond hadn’t taken that into consideration when he’d given into his crush. When he’d told Sock he liked him back. When he let Sock lay on his arm and nuzzle into his shoulder every night. Hell, it had always been on a back burner in his mind. 

The point was that it didn’t really matter. Before the apocalypse? Yeah, he would’ve been a little freaked out. But after? 

At this point, Jonathan was so accustomed to death that if someone told him that they’d created the Ramot Virus specifically to wipe out humanity, he’d probably just shrug it off and walk away. 

After a few minutes of watching Sock’s shoulders shake in quiet sobs, Jonathan risked resting his hand on the smaller boy’s back. This time, Sock didn’t even flinch, and Jonathan took that as a good sign. He started rubbing small circles along Sock’s spine, hoping that it would calm him down. It took a while, but the crying finally subsided to wet sniffles. Jonathan cleared his throat, awkwardly.

“Sock, y’know,” Sock peeked out at Jonathan, eyes red from crying. “You don’t have to earn the right to like another person. It just kinda happens.”

Sock raised his head back up, wiping at his nose. “I know.”

“So don’t beat yourself up about it, then.” Jonathan scooted closer, careful to give Sock room to move away if he wanted to. “I like you. I like you a lot.” He was satisfied to see a slight flush of pink rise to Sock’s cheeks, and continued. “You’re not a bad person, Sock. You’ve just done some bad stuff.”

“But it was really, really bad stuff.” Sock chose one of his sins and hoped it would repel sympathy, while also praying to whatever god was left in Heaven that Jonathan would keep trying to make him stay. “I killed my dad, you know.”

It did make Jonathan pause, for a moment. Sock held his breath, waiting for the departure of the heat at his side. It never came.

“I...might’ve killed my mom.” 

“What?” Sock whipped his head around to face Jonathan. “What do you mean, ‘might have’?”

“Well,” Jonathan ran the hand not balanced on Sock’s spine through his hair. “It’s hard to explain. I don’t remember half of what went down that day, only that my mom couldn’t keep up.” Sock raised an eyebrow, silently demanding more of an explanation, and Jonathan sighed. “The Survival Society we joined was breaking up. People got violent. There was a fire. We were running away, along a road, and” Jonathan swallowed heavily, “I left her behind.”

“Well, then, you didn’t kill her.”

“I might as well have.”

“You just don’t know where she is, Jonathan. I know exactly where my dad is.” Unspoken, he added, _at the bottom of the kitchen dumpsters._

“Yeah, but you’re not getting it.” Jonathan finally turned his whole body so that he sat across from Sock. “That was months ago.”

“So?”

“So,” Jonathan sighed again, gathered air in his lungs, and spit out, “I didn’t even try to look for her, Sock.”

“Why?”

“I think it was.” Another pause, and Sock leaned forward, expectantly. “It was because I didn’t care. I think I hadn’t for a long time.” Jonathan shrugged, a bit sheepishly. “I wasn’t very nice to my mom, after my dad died. I ignored everything, most of the time.” Taking a shaky breath, he bent forward, knocking his forehead against Sock’s. “Better just to go with the flow and not worry about your emotions, right?”

Sock thought back to before he’d joined the Demons, when he’d cried for an entire night and seethed the next morning. “It doesn’t sound very healthy.”

Jonathan huffed out a weak laugh. “No, it doesn’t.” Gently, he placed his hands along Sock’s jaw, lifting up the smaller boy’s face to look him in the eye. “You make me feel things, Sock.” He cracked a smile, just a quirk of one corner of his mouth. “I like that.”

Sock released a shaky breath, leaning into the touch. “You make me sorry for things.” He managed something like a smile, though it felt full of tears. “I don’t know if I like it.”

Shrugging, Jonathan moved his hands down to Sock’s shoulders and pulled him closer. “Fair enough.”

They sat like that for almost half an hour, breathing in each other’s scents and relearning how to touch. Jonathan stared out the window at the pale and ineffectual December sun, lighting the Earth from behind thin clouds. At last, he broke the silence. “Should we stay in today?”

\------

They didn’t leave their nest of blankets for the entire day, save to grab bottles of water and to go to the bathroom. Sock refused to eat anything--he still felt sick to his stomach from crying--but he did manage to take a few sips of water, which Jonathan figured must be a good sign. Through the afternoon, they alternated between napping and cuddling, talking in low voices when they were both awake and listening to silence when they weren’t. 

When the sun started to set on the western horizon, neither of them got up to light a candle. Slowly, the dark crept in from the corners, engulfing both boys while the sky was still a cool shade of purple and rosy orange. Jonathan wrapped both his blanket and his arms around Sock, cradling him close until their shared warmth made them both drowsy, breathing evening out into steady harmony. He brushed his cheek up against the smaller boy’s and whispered gently into his ear. 

“Sock?”

“Hm?”

“Stay.”

“...”

“Please.”

“...Okay.”


	18. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took SO LONG to write. The block was strong with this one :(
> 
> In the meantime, thank you all for being patient! And thank you so much for the wonderful comments and kudos :D
> 
> Back with Lil and Jojo for the intermission of Settling In. Next chapter will be with Sock and Jon again.

Lil rubbed the bridge of her nose, narrowly resisting the urge to groan out loud. Three mornings. Three mornings in a row. God damn, this was getting ridiculous.

At her side, Jojo hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle, a good sign that she was still deeply asleep. That, at least, was fortunate for Lil. Maybe if she moved very carefully and very, very slowly, she could extricate herself from the death grip on her arm without waking her up. 

Since finding the windbreaker and new blankets, Lil had thought that the unconscious snuggling would stop. No such luck, though, as the tingling numbness of her fingers attested to. For the last three mornings, she’d woken up in similar positions to this one, with Jojo attached to one of her limbs. So far, her plan of action had involved not moving and making zero noise, which usually resulted in falling back asleep and Jojo scolding her later for not waking up early enough. 

There was absolutely no way she could win in this situation, was there?

Lil stared at the ceiling, resolutely counting the tiles in the hopes that doing math might keep her awake. They’d stayed in an abandoned office building for the night, using cushions from the sofas for makeshift pillows. Somewhere on the first floor, near the back, she’d smelled the telltale perfume of death in huge quantity. Considering the bullet holes in the windows at the front of the building, she could hazard a guess as to what happened. 

Ramot really hadn’t been that bad, at first. Well, it was; countries were crumbling and people dying in the hundreds of thousands every day, but that was all on the other side of the world. Maybe the coasts were in trouble, but here, in the middle of the continent, Ramot seemed very distant, a rumbling earthquake whose epicenter was miles away.

And then the shockwaves had hit. 

Lil counted herself lucky that she’d escaped the city when she did, before the violent side of panic set in. Those college girls had helped her, risked their lives to stay in a building that was infected with Ramot when they should have left. Sure, they had forgotten her mother, but at least they hadn’t done it on purpose.

At least, she hoped they hadn’t.

But in the months after the cities started to collapse, everyone got paranoid. People were still dying at alarming rates, but already, the Virus was starting to slow in its coarse. No, most of the deaths during the decline of Ramot had been perfectly healthy humans, killed by other, more desperate, healthy humans. Although she’d never seen it happen, Lil had viewed the aftermaths of some of those mass killings: people suspected of having Ramot crowded into small rooms or shacks and shot from outside, or burned alive by their own neighbors. 

Somewhere, in the back, something like that had happened. She couldn’t quite smell it up here, on the third floor, but the scent still tickled the back of her palate; an itch she couldn’t quite reach. Jojo had noticed it, of course. The girl practically had a weird sixth sense for this kind of thing. She’d barely eaten anything the night before for dinner, and her face had gotten progressively paler as the evening wore on. This morning, she looked slightly better. At least her color had improved. Still, Lil planned on moving them outside before trying to eat breakfast. It might be cold, but she had the feeling that Jojo would appreciate it. 

32 ceiling tiles. Eight by four. The corners were brown with water damage, even though this wasn’t the top floor of the building. The carpet was an ugly shade of green, with flecks of blue mixed in occasionally. A dead plant stood in the corner, crumbling silently into dust. The bodies downstairs, with bullet holes in their heads, were rotting to bone.

Jojo sighed in her sleep, readjusting her arms and leaning her forehead into the corner of Lil’s blanket. Gently, Lil worked her arm out of Jojo’s loosened hold, wincing when the shorter girl whined, fearing for a moment that she’d woken up her companion. But no, she just rolled over onto her stomach, fingers catching the edges of her blanket. Lil stood up as noiselessly as possible and wandered over to the single window at the opposite end of the room. 

The office building was in the middle of the downtown business district, which would have been dead before the apocalypse. None of the small towns along the shores of Lake Erikson had been doing so well, just prior to Ramot. She wasn’t surprised to see the sidewalks cracked into rubble, or the shabby storefronts starting to crumble in on themselves; she recalled those things from summers long past.

She was, however, surprised to see a flash of color disappearing behind a corner across the street. 

Stepping quickly to the side, Lil bit her lip and considered her options. It was still early in the morning; Jojo wouldn’t take too kindly to being woken up. But if the person outside was dangerous, it would be better to act sooner rather than later. After all, they’d been avoiding the shore of the lake for exactly this reason: it was too populated. All the fancy summer homes Lil remembered driving past and admiring from across the lake were smashed in and occupied. She didn’t trust any of them, much as she wished she could. 

A particularly strong gust of wind stirred the air in the building, and Lil caught a stronger whiff of the bodies downstairs. 

Tiptoeing back to Jojo, Lil shook her shoulder gently. “Jojo.” The shorter girl’s relatively peaceful face twisted into a scowl as she cracked open one eye.

“What?”

“Someone’s outside. We should go.” That, at least, forced Jojo into action. Not very fast action, of course--in the mornings, that was reserved for emergencies--but she roused herself out of bed and started folding her blankets amidst many yawns. 

They didn’t bother with food. In an effort to conserve resources, they’d taken to having only one meal a day, with a light snack sometime in the morning. If they didn’t find another grocery store or something soon, Lil wasn’t entirely confident they’d make it past Lake Erikson before the snow flew. It hurt to hear Jojo’s stomach growling all day, but oddly enough she never complained. 

Halfway down the stairs, Jojo covered her nose and mouth with the neck of her shirt, pointedly looking at either Lil’s back or her own feet. If they weren’t in such a hurry, Lil might have reached over and squeezed her hand, but as it was, the girls just rushed past the bullet-ridden lobby and carefully pushed open the door to the street.

Outside, there was no sign of the person Lil had seen earlier. Cautiously, she led Jojo down the road that would take them to the furthest edge of town. Every few seconds, she glanced back over her shoulder to check if someone was following them. It was a familiar action that Lil had practiced many times over many years, much as she hated to have to use it. Jojo lowered her makeshift mask and studied the clouds above. Her whisper rang loudly in the silence.

“Lil, I think it’s gonna snow today, those clouds look--” 

“Shh.” Lil stopped abruptly, ignoring the gentle bump of Jojo crashing into her back. “Heard something.”

“What, like wind?”

“Like footsteps.” At that, Jojo snapped her mouth shut and started scanning the side streets. Silence. “C’mon.” Lil reached one hand back for Jojo, placing the other on the handle of the machete at her side. The two girls started walking quickly down the street, footsteps ringing ominously off the concrete walls of dilapidated storefronts. They were just about to exit the downtown area when Lil stopped, again, this time for more obvious reasons. 

Jojo squinted at the boy leaning casually against the corner of an old clothing shop. He looked to be a little younger than Lil, judging by the acne dotting his face and the half-grown beard on his jaw. Everything on him was getting long in the tooth, from his broken glasses to the hole-ridden sweater and the tattered hem of his jeans. She could smell him from twenty feet away, and she wrinkled her nose at the unfamiliar scent. They all stood awkwardly for a few seconds before Lil cleared her throat and the boy pushed himself off the wall.

“Do you need something?” 

The boy appeared startled by Lil’s bluntness, and Jojo smirked into Lil’s shoulder blade. The satisfaction was quickly replaced by shock, however, when the boy broke into the most infuriating smile Jojo had ever seen and replied in an oddly squeaky voice, “Only you, beautiful.” 

Jojo was about to open her mouth--probably to shout a few well-chosen profanities--when Lil pulled on her arm, dragging her forward. “Can’t have me, sorry.” They moved forward at a decent clip until the boy was only a few feet away. He stepped directly in front of Lil, blocking the way no matter how Lil tried to dodge him. “Okay, seriously? Move.”

“Hmm. Nah.” The boy started circling them, slowly, and Jojo stepped on Lil’s heels in an attempt to move away. “Wow, you’re both really cute.”

This time, Jojo got a word in. “Fuck off.”

He staggered back a little, stammering. Jojo silently congratulated herself on breaking his dumb cool-kid act, at least for a little while. Lil took his silence for release, and had taken another few steps forward when the boy managed to spit out, “Wait.” Again, they stopped, and Jojo noticed Lil rubbing circles into the handle of the machete. Nerves, maybe. This guy was acting awfully strange. “Can you, um. Could you come with me?”

Jojo’s loud “No!” covered up Lil’s “What?” The boy flinched away from both. 

“No, no, that came out wrong--”

“For your sake, it better have.” Jojo was pushing Lil down the street now, making what little progress they could. 

“Look, just--will you stop trying to run away!” He took a few threatening steps towards them, and Lil yanked Jojo away so fast she almost lost her footing. 

“What. Do you want.” Lil tried to lower her voice into something more threatening, although her heart was beating ten miles a minute in her chest. Still, it seemed to have some sort of effect, judging by the immediate guilt in the boy’s eyes.

“It’s, um” He kicked absently at the cracked pavement of the road. “It’s my sister.”

“What about your sister?”

“She’s mad at me. Could you talk to her, or something?”

Jojo narrowed her eyes. “That’s not why you came out here. Spit it out.”

“No, no! That is why I came out here.” He sighed, pulling a hand through his shoulder-length, greasy hair. “We used to live here, but we moved down to the lake shore because there’s water. I wanted to go back to our house to grab one of her old toys, or something of mom’s. So she’ll stop being a brat.”

“Well, that’s your problem, man. Later.” Once again, they were moving down the street, and again, the kid jumped out in front of them, blocking their path. Lil stomped her foot--actually stomped her foot, Jojo would have burst out laughing if she wasn’t so irritated--and snapped, “Would you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Getting in my way.” 

“Okay, okay. Geez, sorry.” He didn’t move. Instead, he kept talking. “My name’s Tyler, by the way.” He held out a hand to Lil, and she glanced down at it in unmasked disdain. Since both of Lil’s hands were occupied--one on the machete and one on Jojo--the blond took it upon herself to slap Tyler’s hand away.

“Look, we really don’t care. Just let us go.”

“Please, I just need someone to talk to her. She’s...I don’t know! She’s acting weird, lately.” Lil sighed, rolled her eyes, and settled her weight on one hip. Taking the hint to go on, Tyler elaborated. “She’s always sleeping in, and saying she’s tired. Yesterday she didn’t even get out of bed all day.” Tyler shook his head, slowly. “This morning I tried to get her up and she snapped. Said I should just leave her alone, already. Wouldn’t even let me take off her blanket.”

Jojo was about to suggest that maybe Tyler’s sister had realized she had a creep for an older brother and was hiding in shame when Lil spoke up. “How old is your sister?”

“Uh, let’s see. Um, twelve, I think? It’s hard keeping track.”

Lil heaved a sigh and turned to Jojo. From one glance, she could tell what Lil wanted to do. She pouted, a silent plea not to go, and Lil responded with a sheepish look and a shrug. Turning back, Lil gave her answer. 

“We’ll go.”

\------

Tyler’s place was a tiny campsite, a few miles out of town and close to the shore of the lake. It was the closest Jojo had been to Lake Erikson; so far, she’d only seen it in the distance, a vague blue-grey splotch on the landscape. The beach was made up of rough sand and large, smooth stones, all covered with a thin coat of morning frost. Her breath came out in white clouds, and she was about to burrow deeper into the windbreaker when a blanket fell over her shoulders. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Lil draped one arm around Jojo, staring out at the water. “You can’t see the beach my mom and I swam at from here, but it’s kinda like this all around the lake.”

Breathing deep, Jojo relished the stark contrast between Lil’s warmth and the stinging cold of the air. “Yeah, it’s nice.” With a brief smile, Lil pulled Jojo around and towards the campsite.

Once Tyler unzipped the flap of the tent, Jojo understood why Lil had made the decision to go out. The entire place smelled like blood; more specifically, the musty scent of period blood. The girl curled up in the blankets inside looked absolutely pitiful, face scrunched up in pain. Squirming out of Lil’s hold, Jojo grabbed Tyler’s arm and dragged him away from the tent while Lil stepped inside. 

“What? What’s going on?”

“Okay, seriously? You are the dumbest kid I’ve ever met.”

“Well, that’s rude.”

“It’s rude, but it’s true. Your sister’s on her period, dumbass.”

“Wh--no, she can’t be. Don’t women get that when they’re older?”

“She’s about the right age for it, dude.”

“But--” Tyler’s face was going red, and Jojo fought to keep hers void of emotion. “She’s not gonna die, is she? I mean, she’s bleeding right now, but it won’t kill her, will it?”

“Edit to my previous statement. You are the dumbest person in the entire fucking world. No, she’ll be fine.”

“Oh, phew.” Tyler’s shoulders relaxed, but he quickly tensed up again. “Wait, I thought girls could turn it off, or something!”

The sound of Jojo’s hand hitting her forehead resonated dully through the early morning air. 

\------

“So.”

“So?”

“I left some of my tampons with that girl. Kinda feel bad I couldn’t help with the cramps, though.”

“Not your fault, man.”

“I know, but it just sucks.” Lil scuffed her shoe on the ground, sending up a tiny cloud of dust. “Wanna know something she told me?”

“Not really.”

“...Oh.”

“Tell it to me anyway.”

Breathing out a half-hearted laugh, Lil uncrossed her arms from her chest. “She told me that her mom died in that building we were sleeping in. Killed because someone thought she’d caught Ramot. Would’ve killed the kids, too, except that she had sent them away to that campground beforehand. ”

“Well, shit. That explains the terrible sex-ed.”

“I hope you didn’t rail on him too much. He’s only fourteen, y’know.”

“I know, I know. He’s still dumb as a rock, though.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t.”

“Good.” Jojo bit her lip, trying to come up with some words to say next. “Look, I. That was a really nice thing to do, going out there and helping them. I kinda want to say thanks.”

“Why? Didn’t do anything for you.”

“I know, I know. I just.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Something was bubbling up inside her chest, bright and buoyant. Trying to suppress it, she immediately made a wry comment about the state of the road on which they walked, pointedly ignoring the leap her pulse took whenever Lil giggled.

Later, when the conversation waned, their hands drifted together, fingers intertwined loosely as they continued north. 

\------

_Once upon a time, the World came to an end._

_In a forest on the shores of a wide blue lake, there lived a mother rabbit with her many children. Each morning, the littlest ones would wake first, crying for food, and rouse the others. When the sun peeked over the horizon, she would lead them all out of their burrow to play in the grass. Always she feared for their safety, for their father had been eaten by a creature much larger than him. She kept a sharp eye out for any danger, and taught her children to do the same. They ran from the slightest whisper of wind in the trees, startled at bees flying through the flowers._

_One morning, when they exited the den, she felt danger in the air, but could not tell where it came from. It seemed to permeate the very ground beneath her feet, the grass she ate, the clouds in the sky. She wanted to run, but didn’t know which way to turn, which way to lead her family. With every hour the sensation grew worse, weighing down on her small ribs and tightening beneath her lungs. By evening, she was half mad with fear._

_The children sensed nothing, but in the earliest hours of the next morning, the littlest one died. His brothers and sisters nosed at his limp body while his mother wept and pushed him out the door. From his mouth poured black blood, his fur barely covered the boils and welts pushing up beneath the skin. Her own body stung wherever she touched him._

_A few hours later, the next youngest died. Again, the blood drained from his mouth, the boils popped as she pulled him out of the den, she heard his organs pop and drain fluid._

_At this time, she knew: this was it, the danger she had feared all the day before. And she had to run, now._

_Waking the few children who were still asleep, she led them all out of the burrow and through the forest, slowly, so as not to rustle the grass and alert predators to their presence. Out in front, she watched for snakes and owls and wolves, but behind her was a greater source of fear. Not long after leaving, she heard two of the children choking, crying out, “Mother, help us!”_

_She did not stop, not even when she heard their bodies stumble to the ground, gasping for breath. She barely paused when another silently died behind her, stifling his screams. She only slowed with exhaustion when the second oldest began to vomit just as the sky began to brighten with the dawn. Finally, when the sun peeked out into the world, she stopped._

_There was only one left following her. The child’s fur was matted with the blood of her siblings, her cheeks stained with tears from hours of silent weeping. Already, she felt the silent killer seeping into her bones, rotting her organs from inside out. Her last few steps in the sun were short and stumbling, a desperate final search for the comfort of her mother’s skin._

_Facing the sun, the mother gasped out the tears she’d been holding in all night. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone in the world--no siblings, no parents, no mate, no children. Behind her, a string of death wound its way through the forest, dousing the ground with innocent blood. Her own lungs began to boil, her heart breaking to spill out over her guts. The stars began to fade from the sky, and silently she begged them: Please, let my children live again._

_In the sky, they play; six young rabbits, protected by the mother nearby._


	19. Settling In (Part Three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy howdy school is kicking my ass already and that's really the only excuse I have for this being so damn late
> 
> Anyway THANK YOU all so much for your kind kudos and comments!! I'm quickly settling into a routine for the year, so updates should be more regular from here on out (provided, of course, that I don't get sucker punched with essays).
> 
> Please enjoy ;)

Sock’s stomach woke him up early the next morning, but he didn’t dare move. A dull, almost pleasant ache was resonating through his entire body. He was laying on his side, one arm numb, face nuzzled into the shoulder of Jonathan’s hoodie. Vaguely, he realized that his nose was running, and he sniffled, trying to clear up his nasal passages. 

“Please don’t use me as a tissue.” 

Slowly recovering from his heart attack, Sock glared up at Jonathan, who was struggling to reign in his smirk and failing spectacularly. “I’m not!” 

“Yep. Sure.” Jonathan hauled himself up on one elbow, dislodging Sock’s head. Sulking, the smaller boy flopped back down onto the floor. “Whatever you say.” Moving awkwardly, Jonathan sat up and pulled one of the last bags of chips over onto the blanket. “You getting sick or something?”

Snuffling again, Sock nodded. He wasn’t terribly surprised, it was just his luck to get a cold immediately after getting a boyfriend. Glancing towards said boyfriend--who was hogging the chips, rude--Sock remembered why his cheeks felt to taut this morning, why his stomach was complaining so loudly.

Oh, hell. Yesterday. Yesterday had happened. 

Rolling onto his back, Sock flexed his fingers, trying to regain bloodflow, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his memory to be erased. Yesterday had happened. He’d cried, actually cried, without even thinking about it or trying to do it, and he winced just recalling how the tears felt as they trickled down his cheeks. God, he was so unnecessarily angsty, and worse, he’d made Jonathan anxious that he was going to up and leave one morning out of the blue.

Sure, he’d actually been thinking of doing that, but Jonathan didn’t need to know about it.

Sock cleared his throat a little to catch Jonathan’s attention. His voice was rasping when it came out but for the life of him he couldn’t get it back to normal. “Hey, about yesterday--”

Abruptly, Jonathan wrapped the bag of chips shut and lay back down next to Sock. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not, I was a mess.”

“Like I said, it’s alright. No harm, no foul.” Jonathan paused in twisting the plastic of the bag and lowered one hand between them, searching for Sock’s fingers. After finding and squeezing them reassuringly, he continued, voice hushed. “Please don’t leave me.”

Something in Sock’s chest tightened painfully, and for a moment he thought his heart was breaking--how in the fuck did he think he could leave this boy?--but no, it was mucus pushing its way out his esophagus. He responded, therefore, to Jonathan’s plea with a furious bout of coughing. After the first few hacks, Jonathan’s expression of concern quickly devolved into a smirk, and from there into hopeless, silent giggling. Sock glared at his boyfriend, swallowing to temporarily soothe his throat, and croaked out, “Shut up,” before letting out a breath of laughter himself. It hurt. 

Unrolling the bag, Jonathan reached in and fished out a small chip, motioning it towards Sock’s mouth. “C’mon. You didn’t eat anything last night.” The smell of the flavoring turned Sock’s stomach a little, and he turned away, trying to reach up to bat Jonathan’s hand away, only to find that their hands were still attached. Jonathan hoisted himself up, half scowling and half amused, insistently jabbing the chip at Sock, “Will you just eat the damn chip?”

Sock giggled, rolling onto his side, avoiding the chip so that it poked into his cheek, leaving tiny dots of dust behind. 

“You’re impossible.” Finally giving up, Jonathan dropped the chip in front of Sock’s face. The smaller boy snatched it up immediately and took a tiny, defiant nibble.

“Your face is impossible.” Sock smiled as Jonathan rolled his eyes and gently nudged the rest of the chip away. He was hungry, but his stomach was roiling. Maybe he’d try again in a few hours. In the meantime, he nudged Jonathan’s sulking face and cooed, “Impossibly adorable.”

Rolling his eyes again--although this time with a bit of a flush on his cheeks, much to Sock’s pleasure--Jonathan carefully wrapped an arm around Sock’s torso, still gently holding his hand. They rested like that for a few minutes, hands intertwined just beneath Sock’s ribs. Sock’s stomach made a few more gurgling noises, and the two boys quietly laughed them off. Jonathan pulled Sock a little closer, burying his face into the joint of the smaller boy’s shoulder, and was about to suggest actually getting up and doing something--anything--productive, when a loud CLANG startled them both out of the hushed atmosphere.

Sock’s immediate reaction was to try and spring up off the floor, but he found himself trapped by Jonathan’s arm, which was stubbornly staying in place, even forcing him closer to the floor. He hissed over his shoulder, “Let go!” and tried to rise again, to the same result.

“Shh.” Jonathan hastily pushed the chip bag out of reach so the plastic wouldn’t accidentally crinkle. They lay in tense stillness for another half minute, jumping harshly again at another loud noise, a bit closer this time. Footsteps moving across the pavement, closer, then farther away. Then the voices drifted over, muffled by the glass.

“Would you hurry your ass up, ya bastard?”

“I’m lookin’ to see if Twinky up and left yet!”

Sock wanted to either melt into a puddle or punch himself in relief. It only lasted for a moment, though; the next thing he knew Jonathan was practically ripping his arm off trying to drag him through the aisles and into the back room. Dragging the soles of his feet on the broken linoleum, Sock rasped, “What are you doing?!”

“Shhh!” Sock saw Jonathan’s face clearly for the first time since identifying the voices. There was something in his eyes, something in the way his mouth curled down desperately at the corners, that made Sock’s gut pinch. Jonathan pointed at their bags, which were still sitting near their blankets. “Grab those.”

As he reached back, grabbing the straps as well as he could, Sock lowered his voice to match Jonathan’s panicked whispering. “What are we doing?”

“Hiding!” Jonathan was crawling as well as he could down the aisle. Sock followed suit, stuffing blankets into backpacks and creeping in the same direction. Slowly, Jonathan turned the handle to the back room, cracked open the door--releasing the foul pent-up smells of rotten eggs and milk--and slithered in. Shoving the bags inside, Sock turned back to the store, crouching low behind the shelves. 

He walked as far up to the door as he dared, listening. Troy and Michael were arguing about whether or not he’d cleared out of town, and, more depressingly, whether or not he’d decided to eat Jonathan. Moving slowly, Sock worked his way to one of the windows, peeking out at the street. Michael was standing near one of the gas pumps, back turned to the building. He couldn’t see Troy, but all the same his stomach dropped. 

Michael was casually leaning on his pipe, which was significantly dirtier than the last time Sock had seen it. There even seemed to be some residual bone stuck on the lead, meaning that the last fight had been particularly brutal. 

Naturally, though, the victim was wrapped securely in a tarp. The body inside didn’t seem very big, given all the extra fabric bunched up at the ends. There was a small hole in the bottom, through which Sock could barely make out the dull, blood and dirt stained fabric of a coat. 

He glanced back at Jonathan, who was sitting in the doorway, nervously watching Sock watching Michael.

_That could’ve been Jonathan._

Hurrying back over to the backdoor before Michael could turn around and see him spying, Sock motioned for Jonathan to crawl in. Slowly, as noiselessly as possible, he shut the door behind him, sliding the latch back into place and turning the lock with a soft click. He heard Jonathan’s breathing in the new darkness of the backroom, and he turned towards the sound. He tried once to whisper, found his throat too raw for the task, and instead ground out at a slightly louder than desirable volume:

“We’re leaving as soon as they do.”

 

\------

 

Jonathan didn’t know how long they’d been sitting in the dark in this goddamn backroom. All he knew was that he really had to pee, and that if those two Demon bastards weren’t gone when he crawled out of this Hellhole they were in for a beating.

In theory, being in the back with Sock should’ve been nice. Close quarters, near-darkness--both perfect conditions for some serious snuggling. Of course, that fantasy vision didn’t take into account the cold, hard, damp concrete floor of the freezer, nor the overwhelming stench of sour milk, nor the tense jumpiness of his boyfriend. Every time he so much as moved, Sock would startle, audibly. The first few times, he’d almost been able to laugh it off. Now, he was seriously worried over whether or not Sock was giving himself high blood pressure. 

Of course, it wasn’t like hiding was a bad idea. Once, a while ago, Troy and what’s-his-face had come tromping through the store, tossing around the remaining goods on the shelves. He hadn’t been able to make out what they were saying, but from what he’d seen of their personalities, it couldn’t have been good. 

But this was seriously ridiculous. They’d been in here long enough--what, maybe four hours?--and Sock wasn’t making any sort of move towards the door, not even to check and see if the Demons were still around. Jonathan sighed, and, hearing the sound of Sock’s ear-flaps hitting his cheeks as he whipped his head towards the noise, deliberately scuffed his shoe on the floor. Sock made a low, whining, irritated sound, and Jonathan took that as a cue to start talking.

“How long are we staying here? I know I said to hide, but this is a bit much, right?” 

“I’m not leaving until we have to.”

Jonathan groaned, narrowly resisting the urge to flop back onto the floor. If he did that in here, he might bash his brains out on the concrete by accident. “And when’s that gonna be? I need to pee.”

Sock groaned, the sound broken by his sore throat. “I don’t know--maybe another half hour? I want to be sure.”

“The only way to be sure is to go out and look, man.”

“I know, but then I’m leaving you back here.” Lower, barely audible, Sock added, “Alone.”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, Sock scooted closer to Jonathan, taking his cold fingers into his own after a moment of scrabbling around in the dark. “I don’t want to leave you alone. The last time I left you alone--” He stopped short, pulling his legs up to his chest and away from Jonathan’s ankle. “You know.”

“I got my ass kicked by a six foot tall Demon with a pipe?”

Sock snorted and Jonathan smirked, despite the twinge of pain in his ankle. “Right.” Clearing his throat uselessly, Sock continued, hesitatingly. “Jonathan?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For--everything? I guess.” Sock readjusted his hand in Jonathan’s, leaned a little more into the blond’s shoulder. “I mean, everything’s that’s happened since we met. I’m sorry.”

“...I’m still confused.”

“Like your knee. And now your ankle, and your hand.” Rubbing his thumb over the newly-made scabs on Jonathan’s right hand, Sock thought of the body being dragged over the ground outside. Of all the bodies he’d dragged around in similar fashion. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at protecting you.”

“To be fair, no one asked you to.” Sock tensed even more against Jonathan’s arm, and he briefly wondered if that was the wrong thing to say.

Sock’s voice was cold when he next spoke. “No one should have to ask.” Yep, wrong thing. Then, a little more gently, “You don’t have to earn the right to like someone. It just kinda happens.” He jabbed his shoulder softly into Jonathan’s ribs to emphasize his point.

Jonathan rolled his eyes, even though he knew Sock couldn’t see him. “Yeah, okay. I deserve that one.” With a sigh, Sock relaxed, the anger draining from his shoulders. 

“You deserve a lot of things, Jonathan.” Sock stretched his spine a little, then slumped back down. “You deserve the best.”

Jonathan brought up his left hand, the one not tangled up with Sock’s, and pushed the hat off of Sock’s head. “Well, that’s why I got you.” Sock went very still, then all at once started stuttering and spluttering out excuses, to which Jonathan simply responded by laughing and combing his fingers through Sock’s cowlicks. 

As the smaller boy nuzzled back into Jonathan’s side, he again considered his chances of getting a kiss. Maybe he could just kinda duck his head down and smooch Sock, really quickly. Maybe he could creep their faces closer together, angle things just right, and snag one. 

Sock tilted his face into the side of Jonathan’s neck, pressing the lightest of kisses to a sweet spot that Jonathan didn’t even know he had. 

...Maybe he should just ask.

“Um. Sock?”

Pulling back, Sock worried that maybe he shouldn’t have done that. “Yeah?”

Jonathan sucked in a deep breath, catching, amongst the rotten eggs and milk, a trace of Sock’s sweat and musk. He could do this. It might kill him, but he could do this. “Can I, uh. Well, I want to ask if I can, maybe, you know--” Pausing, he tried to catch his breath.

“...What?”

“I’d like to--no, that’s not it…”

“Jonathan, just say it.”

“...Can I maybe kiss you?” There, that didn’t sound quite terrible. He almost felt a little confident, until the ringing silence following his question continued for a little too long. “Um, Sock?”

Sock released a shaky, squeaky breath and answered in one long string of words. “I’d really like to but maybe not like right now because it’s dark and I’d like to at least see what I’m doing well not like my eyes will be open or anything but you know--” Finally, he sucked in much-needed air, coughed twice, and finished. “Yes, but after we leave the closet.” In response to Jonathan’s involuntary snort, Sock again elbowed his ribs. “Shut up, you know what I mean!”

“Of course I do.” Just as Sock started warily relaxing back into his accustomed spot, Jonathan added, “Still funny as hell.” Another jab to the ribs, and Jonathan felt the beginnings of a worthy bruise. 

Sock roused himself from the floor, sticking his tongue out at Jonathan uselessly. “Okay, Mr. Smartass, I’m checking on the outside of the closet.” Quietly, he unlocked the door and twisted the knob. By leaning back, Jonathan could see out into the store. He released a low whistle when it came into view. The midday sun was streaming through the windows, two of which were now shattered. One of the shelving units was turned over on the floor, its contents spilled across the tiles. Other products were laying haphazardly all over the place. There was even a box hanging by a corner from the soggy ceiling tiles. 

“Really did a number on it, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sock toed a crushed package of donuts out of the way of the door. Jonathan scooched closer to the doorway, dragging one of the bags behind him. “I’m glad we weren’t in here when they--”

“Mike! Toss it!”

The next five seconds were a pure blur to Jonathan. Troy was running backwards, catching something that Michael had thrown from across the road, and he smashed wholesale into the front door. He didn’t see the aftermath because Sock swung the door closed and slammed the lock into place, stepping backwards directly into Jonathan and tripping magnificently to the floor. They were tangled in a heap when Troy started shouting incomprehensibly to Michael. 

Jonathan was trying to figure out which limbs were his and which were Sock’s when something slammed against the door. Immediately, both boys stilled, and Jonathan crouched as close to the floor as he could without suffocating Sock. The door didn’t give, through some miracle, but then Troy started ripping open the doors to the refrigerators, sending dim light streaming into the back room. 

It seemed that the only thing that moved in those thirty seconds of terror was sound--the crash of shelving units and the crack and shatter of glass as Troy and Michael tore the store apart, looking for a way to get in. Jonathan knew his eyes were open only because they started to sting. He only vaguely saw Sock’s face beneath his own, frozen in a similar expression.

Finally, Michael seemed to calm Troy down, and the two slashed and smashed their way out of the store. There was one last crash, then only the muffled clamor of voices arguing and the underlying scratch of something being dragged along the road. 

They were absolutely still for another two minutes before either of them even dared release a breath. Jonathan’s other senses started flooding back in, and he glanced out the refrigerator doors at the blurry outlines of the destroyed shelves, the newly broken window, the smashed bottles of alcohol and soda. He heard Sock release a shuddering breath and turned back to his boyfriend without thinking. “I think they’re gone. Are you--”

Jonathan stopped short. Sock was staring up at him, eyes wide and alert. Not for the first time, Jonathan marveled over how damn green Sock’s eyes actually were, how many freckles were sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, how infuriatingly soft his lips looked. But here they all were, closer to his own face than they had any right to be. 

Teeth gently bit into those lips, a bright flush spread across those cheeks, those eyes glanced, for the briefest of seconds, down to Jonathan’s own mouth. Then, barely audible, he breathed:

“...Okay.”

The journey to Sock’s mouth was cut in half by the smaller boy surging up to meet him.


	20. Settling In (Part Four)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay we made it to chapter 20 :D
> 
> I'm sorry, again, for the delay with updates. School is school and it kind of just constantly kicks my ass. In any case, though, thank you all for the kudos and wonderful comments! They really motivate me to get off my butt and continue writing :)
> 
> Please enjoy :D

Everything considered, it was pretty terrible. The only difference between this and Jonathan’s experience with Mildred Hathgow was a lack of teeth falling out.

Jonathan pulled back hastily, starting to stutter apologies for leaning down too fast, but found himself yanked back down. Sock had wrapped his arms loosely around Jonathan’s neck, and tugged him down, fitting their lips together again with a satisfied sigh.

Okay, the second time was better. At the very least, it didn’t feel like he was mashing his skull into Sock’s mouth. His nose was awkwardly pressing into Sock’s cheek, but damn it was worth it just to taste the dull sourness of the smaller boy’s mouth, just to feel chapped lips press into his own. The second kiss lasted much longer. 

Maybe a little too long, actually. His arms were getting tired, starting to tremble from the effort of keeping his torso from crushing his boyfriend. But surely he could keep it up for another few seconds, right? 

...Nope. 

Shakily, slowly, as carefully as he could, he went crashing down onto Sock, ending the kiss abruptly and forcing a loud, strangled screech out of Sock’s throat. 

“Get off!” Sock wriggled his legs out from under Jonathan, ineffectively waving them in the air while the blond smirked. Stretching out his arm muscles, Jonathan settled his head next to Sock’s on the floor, nuzzling into the smaller boy’s neck, causing said boy to whine. “Your nose is cold, now seriously, get off--”

“Nah, I’m good.” Pressing his nose further into the warmth of Sock’s neck, Jonathan dared to nibble on the skin there, pecking at a pulse.

Sock squeaked indignantly, trying to push up and off the floor. The only effect it had was to press him closer to Jonathan’s body, a dangerous prospect. He abandoned that idea in favor of tugging harshly on the hood of Jonathan’s coat. “Seriously, I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, fine.” Jonathan rolled off the majority of Sock’s body, face still buried into the juncture of Sock’s neck and shoulder. Sock dragged in a loud, dramatic gasp of air, and promptly devolved into a coughing fit. When it finally subsided, Jonathan was rubbing soft, small circles into the ridges of Sock’s ribs. “You okay?”

Sock released another short cough that turned into a laugh. “Doesn’t matter if you lay on top of me, I can’t breathe anyway.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“No.” 

“Damn.” Jonathan propped himself up on one of his elbows, muscles still sore from his earlier position. He bit his lip as Sock wiped at his nose with a coat sleeve. “Can I kiss you again?”

Sock paused with his arm across his nose, blinked once, twice, then released a muffled, “If you don’t mind getting sick.”

“It’s just a cold, man. I can deal.”

“Then by all means.” Turning his head to look Jonathan directly in the eyes, Sock reached up a hand to skirt the edge of Jonathan’s jaw, relishing the way the blond shivered under his touch. He resisted the urge to sniffle again, opting for whispering in the most sultry tone he could manage, “Kiss me.”

The third kiss was close to heavenly, at least until Sock sneezed into Jonathan’s face.

\------

When the two boys ventured out of the freezer, the sun was just passing its apex, though it wasn’t doing much to warm the store. Cold air poured in from the broken windows, tiny breezes stirring the puddles of sour milk and expired lemonade that Troy had spilled onto the floor. Sock steered Jonathan around fragments of broken glass and plastic as well as he could, wincing every time some small piece crunched under his shoes. 

Outside, nothing had changed much, save the new scatter of debris blowing across the road. Sock steadily ignored everything, especially the damp spot next to the gas pumps where the tarp had been. If Jonathan hadn’t seen it, Sock wasn’t going to say anything. Neither of them said anything, until Sock reached the middle of the road and realized he wasn’t exactly sure what they were intending to do.

“Where’re we going?”

“I thought you knew.” Jonathan stopped half a step ahead of Sock, stumbling over a crack in the asphalt. Feeling Sock shrug one shoulder, Jonathan sighed. “Well, I don’t know. Should we just go?”

Sock quirked an eyebrow. “Go?”

“Yeah, like leave.”

“Hm.” Prodding Jonathan to move again, Sock steered them towards one of the houses, plopping down on the front porch. “I don’t know where’d we go, though. I’m really not used to this--this hopping around stuff.” He folded his arms in front of his chest, hunching down over them, trying to conserve heat. Hanging in the air, unspoken, was the reason: because I usually go back to the Demon base to drop things off. Jonathan pointedly ignored it.

“I think a town would be nice. Something bigger than this, maybe.” Jonathan rolled one of his shoulders. “Maybe some place with actual beds to sleep on.” Making a show of stretching out his muscles, Jonathan dropped an arm down across Sock’s shoulders. Sock almost giggled at the obviousness of the gesture. Instead, he leaned into the touch, leeching off of Jonathan’s body heat. 

“You think you’re okay to walk that far?” Sock tapped absently on Jonathan’s knee, loving the way both of their jeans were worn at the joints, the way Jonathan’s arm draped heavily over his neck. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Jonathan leant in, brushing his forehead against Sock’s, his nose poking into the other’s cheek. Sock let out a low hum of approval, sliding his hand up to Jonathan’s thigh. He pecked Jonathan’s lips, soft and slow, refusing to rush even though the wind was starting to seep through the seams of his coat. Jonathan returned the favor, fitting their lips together in a kiss that was a little less than chaste, a little more than innocent. It was wandering and exploratory, warm and sensual, pure bliss until a particularly violent gust of wind forced them off the steps and into the house. 

\------

“Should we take more candles?” 

Sock peeked down the hallway to where Jonathan was standing, staring at the shelves upon shelves of candles. “Maybe a few small ones. Leave the big ones and the sticks.”

Jonathan heaved a sigh, picked up a small votive, and read from the label. “How do you feel about ‘Cinnamon Roll Bliss’?”

“I feel like that’ll just make me hungry.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Without much caution, Jonathan tossed the candle onto the floor, wincing when the glass cracked against the floorboards. “I’m not dealing with fucking mango again, for the record.”

“It was an aromatherapy candle. Kinda sounds like you need its soothing presence.” Sock ducked back into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding a candlestick aimed at his head. It slid across the floor until it hit the baseboards of the cabinets. 

While Jonathan muttered to himself--something that vaguely sounded like “Soothing, my ass”--Sock toed at some charred remains on the kitchen floor. He hadn’t looked at this part of the house very closely before, but now that he did, he recognized some burned-out shapes. An old flip phone with a metal charm, a few pens, keys, the charred remains of the wooden board the keys had been hung on. It had a floral design carved into it. 

Sock sorted through the keys absently. Now that they’d gathered all the blankets and sheets they could carry, looted the medicine cabinet for more pills, and decided on packing more candles, there wasn’t much left to do besides head back across the street to salvage any food they could. They’d have to stall for another day, which was making Sock more nervous than he cared to admit. It smelled like snow outside and he didn’t want to guide Jonathan through a blizzard. 

Bike lock keys, padlock keys, door keys--

Car keys?

Sock held the ring up to the fading light, confused. Why would someone leave their car keys behind? Didn’t they take the car when they left Judd?

A spark of something close to hope flickered to life under Sock’s ribs. He stood abruptly and all but ran out the back door, ignoring Jonathan’s questioning calls.

The wind was flattening the grass out in dead waves, and Sock could see clouds gathering on the horizon. But more importantly, out behind some shrubs, disconnected from the driveway, he could just make out the shape of a tiny garage. Fighting the wind, he started towards it, fingering the key in his hand. Maybe, maybe…

“Sock!” He turned his head briefly to see Jonathan standing in the kitchen doorway, squinting out across the lawn. “Where are you going?”

“The garage!” Sock had to shout to make his voice heard above the wind, as well as his own congestion. They’d also taken a few boxes’ worth of tissues from this house. 

“Why?”

Sock jogged back to the house, grabbing Jonathan’s arm. Walking would be easier than shouting. “C’mon. It’s just a hunch, but it might pay off.”

When they arrived at the garage, Sock was frustrated but gratified to see that it was securely locked. After running back into the house to fetch the pile of keys, trying out every key until he finally found one that fit, and shoving the deadbolt out of place, the boys finally stumbled into the dusty interior. 

And sitting there, like a goddamn holy relic, was a pickup truck. Sock could’ve cried.

Jonathan just stared at it for a few seconds before asking, “Is this it?”

“What do you mean, ‘Is this it’? Oh, this is beautiful.” Sock draped himself over the hood of the truck in a mock hug, only to choke on the thick layer of dirt and dust covering its surface. While Jonathan settled down on a cobweb-ridden stool, Sock started inspecting the truck.

“Why do we need a truck?”

“Because you can’t walk,” Sock kicked one of the tires, glad to see that it wasn’t totally flat, “and because it’s going to snow soon.” One of the rear windows was cracked, the driver’s side running board hanging half off the cab. Hopefully those were the only reasons this vehicle had been put in storage, and not something more serious. Sock unlocked the driver’s side door with the key and opened it. A gust of musty air rushed out to meet him.

“Wait, you wanna drive it?”

“No, I want to roll the car down the road while you sit in the back. Yes, I want to drive it.” Sock fit the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. Now that he’d found the truck, his nerves were getting the best of him. It had been a while since he’d driven--at least a year. For some reason, his parents never wanted him behind the steering wheel. Maybe it was because of that one time he’d almost run over a group of kindergartners in the crosswalk? 

Jonathan leaned against the door, peering through the window doubtfully. “I don’t know, man. Can you even drive?”

“Of course I can drive! I have a license and everything!” That was true, anyway. Sock had passed Driver’s Education with flying colors, although his instructor had been slightly unnerved by his persistent obsession with aiming for squirrels on the road. 

“Oh yeah? Let me see it.”

Sock rolled his eyes, reaching over to push the passenger door open. Jonathan caught it in his hand easily, using it to pull himself up onto the running board. “I don’t have it with me, Jonathan. Didn’t exactly think I’d get pulled over during the apocalypse.”

“Well, then, I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Oh, please. I’m the adult here, so if I say that I can drive, then that’s that. So nyeh.” He stuck his tongue out at Jonathan, who settled down onto the seat. 

“Oh, very mature.” 

“I know. I’m an adult.”

“You’re a joke. Get in.”

“Your face is a joke” Sock crawled into the driver’s seat, reached down to adjust the seat, and suddenly stopped. Slowly, he hissed, “Shit.”

“What?”

“Um.” Sock moved to sit up and smacked his head on the steering wheel. “Ow.” 

Jonathan breathed a laugh, then reached over to rub the back of Sock’s neck. “What’s up?”

Sock groaned, bunching up his shoulders as Jonathan removed his fingers. “There might be a teeny-tiny problem.”

“What.”

“It’s a stick-shift.” Sock poked the third pedal with his toe, silently willing it to disappear. Well, this just got one hundred percent more difficult. 

“Oh.” Jonathan said, sounding vaguely confused. “...Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Uh, maybe.” Sock studied the clutch warily, dusting off the plastic to reveal the letters beneath.

“Have you ever driven a stick shift before?”

Sock pursed his lips and mumbled, “Kind of.”

“What does ‘kind of’ mean?”

“Uh.” Sock sat back in the seat, sending a puff of dust into his nose. After sneezing, Sock sighed. “My uncle tried to teach me, once.”

“And how’d that go?”

“...He gave up after five minutes and went to bed with a headache.”

“Oh, God.” After a moment of awkward silence, Jonathan reached back and grabbed his seatbelt. “I’m going to die.”

“Sorry.”

“Just start the car, babe.” Lifting one of Sock’s shaking hands from the wheel, Jonathan held it loosely on the seat between them. 

“I kinda need that hand, hot stuff.” Sock met Jonathan’s eyes, and without saying a word, he leaned across the seat to plant a kiss on the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. “But thanks for the thought.”

Jonathan lowered his head to nudge his lips against Sock’s, deepening a peck into a kiss. He tried sucking on Sock’s lower lip, shuddering when Sock returned the favor. They didn’t separate until they were both out of breath, panting and sighing and fogging up the windshield. Still close, Jonathan whispered, “Just drive.”

Sock pressed another kiss onto Jonathan’s cheek. “I’ll do my best.”

\------

“OW.”

“Sorry.”

“God, stop saying that. I know you’re sorry, dammit.”

“Still sorry.”

“OW.”

“On the bright side, I haven’t quite killed us yet.”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t jinx it.”

“Oh, please.” Sock stomped on the brake, wincing at the loud grind of the gears. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t choose something that was--OOF--so painful for me.”

“The bad thing is,” Jonathan adjusted his grip on the side of the door, “I honestly believe that.”


	21. Migraine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHA Sorry
> 
> I'm still not dropping this fic, just for the record. Updates are slow because school is school and I am eternally tired. I won't make any promises about update schedules, with that in mind >.>;;
> 
> Anyway, after almost two months, here is the next chapter!

Both of Jonathan’s arms were numb. Somehow, he’d ended up falling asleep with one arm slightly above his head, and the blood flow had slowly cut off during the night. He tried lifting it again, with no result. Sighing, he peeked back down towards his chest, where the other arm was pinned.

He was going to have to wake up Sock. 

They’d driven for a long time the day before, until it got too dark to see the road properly and Sock couldn’t figure out where the switch for the headlights was. Currently, they were parked (haphazardly) on the side of the road, laying across the flat bench seat and sleeping. Well, at least Sock was. Sometime during the night his hat had slipped off his head and onto the floor. Sock’s cowlicks kept tickling at Jonathan’s runny nose, which was quickly becoming irritating. 

At the same time, Sock deserved to get some decent sleep, after driving a strange vehicle for hours on end. Towards the end, he’d actually started getting the hang of everything. By the time they’d stopped, though, Sock had practically laid his head down on the steering wheel, tottering dangerously close to napping. He’d been uncharacteristically silent in the process of pulling over, yanking the keys out of the ignition, and flopping down into Jonathan’s lap.

But still. 

He stretched, experimentally. If he could just get his arm out from between their chests, he could drag his other arm down and brush Sock’s hair out of his damn face. Slowly, carefully, he started--

“Hmm? Wha--?”

Fuck.

Sock blinked open his eyes while Jonathan held his breath. Almost immediately, Sock shut his eyes again and buried his face into Jonathan’s neck. “Lemme sleep.”

Jonathan almost laughed in relief. “Just...let me--” He managed to slip his arm out into the cold air of the cab, goosebumps rising beneath the fabric of his jacket. HIs fingers began to flush, blood returning. Quickly, he reached up and pulled his other arm down, carefully resting his hands--now going from numb to staticky pain--on Sock’s back. 

“You done?” Sock’s voice was muffled, but the irritation shone through. Jonathan flexed his fingers a few times before gently drumming them against Sock’s spine.

“Should be.”

“Good. Now let me fucking sleep.” 

Jonathan almost--almost--opened his mouth to say something, but something in the way Sock was pressing his face down past his neck and into the seat beneath them stopped him short. Instead, he concentrated on the feeling of his nerves kicking back into action, the icy static slowly being replaced with warmth. He stared at the roof of the cab, at a hole in the plush lining. Sock’s breathing evened out after a while, and Jonathan released a sigh he hadn’t quite realized he was holding in. 

The sun was already well on its way over the horizon. Usually Sock would be biting at the bit to get something done, to be productive, to move or at least to cuddle, to giggle into each other’s skin. But, to be fair, yesterday had kind of sucked. Once, when Sock had been trying to turn, he stepped on the gas too quickly and the acceleration sent Jonathan flying into the door. He was pretty sure that was gonna bruise. And Sock had had a few run-ins with the steering wheel, which seemed poised at just the right height to smash into his sternum. Once, when they’d paused for food, Sock had rubbed at the spot, saying that it was getting kind of hard to breathe.

Feeling the shuddering inhale and exhale of Sock’s lungs, Jonathan closed his eyes and tried to relax. Maybe they deserved a morning in. 

 

\------

It had started the evening before. Just a little headache, nothing bad. And then it got dark, and Sock had barely been able to see shit out the windshield, and Jonathan was still making these little ‘oof’ noises anytime they had to switch gears, and he’d decided that maybe it was time to pull over before his head split open. 

Sleeping was supposed to make headaches go away, right?

Wrong. 

When Jonathan woke him up in the morning--something about moving his arms, God, why did it even matter?--Sock could barely keep his eyes open. Everything was too bright, too loud. Whatever was wrong, whatever had compelled Jonathan to wake him up, Sock hated it. For a second, Sock almost hated Jonathan. Only for a second, though, because then Jonathan started doing that thing where he massaged Sock’s spine, and all was forgiven. 

Another few hours, and the pain would be gone, right?

Wrong.

The second time Sock woke up, it was worse. Before, it had just felt like Jonathan’s whispering was a little too loud; now, just the soft sounds of his breathing grated against Sock’s brain like sandpaper. Worse, everything was brighter now, at midday. The only place Sock could stand to look for more than a few seconds was the inside of his eyelids. 

Sock gritted his teeth and opened his eyes. He needed to find the painkillers. Jonathan breathing was starting to hitch every so often, a sure sign that he would be waking up soon. Unzipping the backpack that had sat at Jonathan’s feet the day before, Sock rummaged around for the savior bottle, trying to be as silent as possible. Noise meant more pain in his head, noise meant waking up Jonathan. Jonathan being awake meant having to open his mouth and try to talk. Sock wasn’t sure he’d be able to form any coherent words beyond expletives, at this point. 

He managed to wrangle the bottle out of an inside pocket before Jonathan finally blinked his eyes open. Thankfully, he didn’t leap right into a conversation, didn’t even try. Instead, Sock felt Jonathan bend one leg experimentally, heard him sigh heavily, and saw him hold a hand out for the pill bottle. Sock plopped it into his palm after taking a few for himself.

And then the motherfucker started talking.

“We’re gonna get addicted to these things if we’re not careful,” Jonathan mumbled as he dropped a pill into his mouth, swallowed it dry. Sock barely comprehended the words. It felt like they were scraping against the inside of his skull. “You okay?”

Sock opened his mouth and a strangled, choking sound escaped his throat. Good enough.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” 

Popping the pill into his mouth, Sock curled his arms under himself and pushed up, ignoring Jonathan’s irritated groan. Even after swallowing the pill, Sock could feel the ghost of a lump in his throat, no matter how much spit he swallowed. None too carefully, he flopped over into the driver’s seat. His head felt light; he’d gotten up too fast. The world outside the windshield was bright, painfully so. The road, the fields, the signs, the hood of the truck--everything was blurring in sunshine. 

He turned the key in the ignition, tried not to scream when the engine roared to life. Tried not to smash his head against the steering wheel, tried to ignore Jonathan’s heavy sigh as he hefted himself up from the seat and squirmed back to the passenger side.   
The last one failed.

“God, just shut up, will you?” It came out a little more snappy than Sock had intended, but he didn’t have time to regret it. Everything was hurting his eyes, sending little needles of pain into the back of his sockets. He groped for the sun visor, pulled it down, and was immediately assaulted with a packet of papers falling onto his head. 

Jonathan started to laugh--a snort followed by a sharp intake of air--but stopped when the first, soft curse left Sock’s mouth.   
The cursing kept going long after Sock had dumped the papers onto the floor, after he pushed the gears into drive, after he slammed his foot down onto the gas. Through it all, Jonathan kept cautiously silent. His father had sometimes gotten into moods like this, when anything and everything seemed to piss him off. Usually, it was after long jobs and short hours of sleep, and during the holidays. It was during one of those episodes that Jonathan learned his first swear word. By the time he was five, his mother had drilled into him what signs to look for and when to shut his mouth. Now was one of those times. 

Eventually, the curses subsided, and they rode along in uncomfortable silence. Jonathan wanted to reach back and put on his seat belt--Sock still wasn’t switching gears very well--but the very thought of moving an inch seemed dangerous. Sock was being a little too quiet, a little too still. And there was something in the way the corners of his mouth turned down, the way he clenched his jaw, that put Jonathan on edge. 

If it came down to dying in a car crash or being murdered by his boyfriend, Jonathan would gladly take a dive through the windshield. 

They rode like that for almost an hour and a half, Sock steadily growing more sure that his head was going to burst, and Jonathan watching the speedometer crawling up to 50 mph. The signs along the road said speed limit of 40, but, he supposed, that really didn’t matter any more. 

After two hours, Jonathan had settled into staring out his window when a house flashed by. He choked on a gasp and immediately felt dumb. It was a house, nothing startling. 

“What.”

Jonathan peeked at Sock out of the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been a question; in fact, it sounded more like an accusation. Shit. “Nothing. Just a house.” His voice was little more than a whisper. 

“Oh.” Jonathan thought he could detect a bit of embarrassment under that one syllable, and he relaxed, marginally. Sock sighed, heavily, and stepped on the brake. 

This town was bigger than Judd, by a long shot. A few scattered houses out towards the edge of town in a development that had never had the chance to get off the ground gave way to blocks filled with buildings. Sock slowed further, taking a side street into the residential area. They hit the curb and Sock’s eye twitched when the back wheel hit asphalt again.

Half the houses on Jonathan’s side of the street were burnt, half-collapsed and blackened. Inside one, he could barely make out the form of a couch and a TV, warped from heat. At the end of the block, Sock finally brought the truck to a standstill for a stop sign riddled with bullet holes. 

The house on the corner was nothing more than a pile of wood and stone and ash. Something was sticking up out of the debris in the front yard. Jonathan stared at it for far too long before Sock noticed. 

“They’re bones.” 

“Oh.”

“Probably someone who tried to escape.” Sock flicked a finger towards the sign and its holes. “Shot ‘em.”

“What, like, executed them?”

“Yep.”

“Then the fire was…” Jonathan didn’t bother to finish the sentence. He knew, Sock knew. Sock shrugged lazily.

“People are horrible.” He eased his foot off the brake, looking both ways before rolling through the intersection. Halfway through, he stopped short and rolled his eyes. “Why did I do that?”

Jonathan hummed, still looking at the bones through the sideview mirror. They were driving west, and the sun was steadily sinking towards the horizon, warmly colored light providing no heat. Something fell into his lap, and he blinked, finding a map slowly sliding down his knee to the floor. Sock had pulled down the passenger side visor, and was now stifling a giggle at the startled look on Jonathan’s face.

“Oh, shut up.” 

“No, no, it’s cool.” Sock glanced over in the middle of a turn and released a (very unattractive) snort-giggle. Then, “ow.” 

“What?”

Sock sighed heavily, aiming the truck down the middle of a narrow street. “I had a migraine this morning, I think.”

“Oh, is that what happened?” Feeling a little less tense, Jonathan grabbed his seat belt and buckled in just before Sock made another turn and another curb-check.

“Oof--yeah, sorry I was pissy.” 

“That’s one word for it.” Sock swatted uselessly into the air next to Jonathan, not daring to take his eyes off the road in front of him. 

“Shush. My brain felt like it was trying to crawl out of my eye sockets, can you blame me for being a little snappish?”

“Eh. It’s a little more scary when it’s you.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re the one with the knife.”

“Oh. Heh.” Shrugging, Sock stopped again. They’d circled back to the highway. “Where are we going?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, we should decide, because we have…” Sock leaned over the wheel a bit. “About a quarter of a tank of gas left.”

Jonathan shrugged again, thinking of the burnt-out houses behind them. “I don’t know about staying here.”

Sock’s eyes flickered up to the rearview, then back to the highway. “Well, we could stay somewhere else. Another store, or something.”

“I don’t know if my back could handle that.”

“True.” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, staring down the dashboard, the dusty, empty cassette player and radio tuned to an AM station. He turned slowly back onto the highway, heading further into town. “I don’t know, if it’s not a house and it’s not a store, then wh--oh!” Hanging a quick right (that made Jonathan grateful he’d put a seat belt on), Sock haphazardly parked the car and switched off the ignition.

Pulling his hoodie up as Sock swung open his door, Jonathan craned his neck back to read the sign at the side of the road. “A hotel?”

“Motel. Mo. Tel. There’s a difference.” Sock yanked a bag out of the cab and slung it over his shoulder.

“Oh? And what would that be?” Jonathan cracked open his door, shivering as the wind blew in and through the thinning cloth of his jeans.

“Um--y’know, I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with cars.”

“Really.” Jonathan smirked, and Sock stuck his tongue out at him. “So, let me guess. We’re here because there are actual beds, but it’s not burnt.”

“Which is generally a plus, yes.” Sock attached himself to Jonathan’s side and helped him up onto the sidewalk. Jonathan moved towards one of the numbered doors, but Sock pulled him back. “Office first, hot stuff.”

“What? Why?”

“Unless you want to jimmy another lock, we need a key.” When they arrived at the door to the office, Sock tried the handle and--

“Locked.” Jonathan bit back his smirk, reminding himself that Sock’s headache could come back at any time and the smaller boy still had a knife on him. “What was that about jimmying locks?”

“Shut up and unlock the door.”

 

\------

 

“Oh, fuck, that feels good.” 

“Move over, will you?”

“Well excuse me, Mr. Lockmaster.” Sock hauled his body further away from the nightstand, allowing just enough room for Jonathan to lower himself onto the mattress. As soon as the blond was settled, Sock rolled back over and flung an arm over his boyfriend’s waist. Jonathan squawked when a cold nose suddenly buried itself in his neck. Sock smiled into the jump of Jonathan’s pulse. “Pull up the covers, babe.”

“Why do I have to do it? I’m the cripple here.” Nonetheless, Jonathan awkwardly pulled the duvet up with his good foot, then with his free hand. “And don’t ‘babe’ me when I had to unlock three doors for you today.”

“That second one wasn’t exactly my fault. Babe.”

“Okay, but the office was useless. Sweetie.”

“Also not my fault. How was I supposed to know the keys were all gone? _Dear._ ”

“Oh, fine. Go to sleep.” Sock felt a kiss pressed to his forehead. “ _Darling._ ”

“Hmmm.” Sock twined one of his legs behind Jonathan’s knee. “G’night.”

“...Night.”

...

“...cupcake.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

\------

 

Sock woke up to cold sunshine on his face, glaring into his eyes, and for a minute, he thought he was having another migraine. Everything outside looked so blindingly white, bright enough to hurt. Slowly, he extricated himself from Jonathan’s arms and squinted to see out the half-open blinds and rotting curtain. 

Nope, not a migraine. He pressed the cold tips of his fingers under Jonathan’s collar, startling the taller boy awake.

“Wha--”

“Jonathan, you’re gonna love this.”

“What.”

Sock smiled and nodded towards the window. “It snowed.”


	22. Museums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY  
> It's been a while whoops. Sorry sorry sorry  
> Also sorry  
> I will do my best with updates! Now that I'm settling into my new classes, I should be able to find time to write this fic and get y'all some more of that sweet, sweet W2H fanfiction. 
> 
> ALSO  
> You may notice that this fic has reached over 100 comments (me: how??? what??? how did this,,,happen???????)  
> So I've made a present for you guys, for being awesome readers and leaving amazing comments for me to read :D The link will be at the end of the chapter :)

They were going so slowly. So. Slowly. Lil grit her teeth and stared resolutely at the clouds above. They’d spent at least thirty minutes creeping down this one damn street, and at this point the sky was looking to be more interesting than the ground. She heaved a light sigh.

“Shh.”

“Shh, yourself.”

“Shut up! Do you wanna get caught?”

“Jojo, if there were Demons here, we’d be dead by now.”

“No, we wouldn’t be.”

“Yes we would.”

“Shut your goddamn piehole. Is this the right street?”

“No.”

Jojo released a strangled half-scream from her throat, and Lil resisted the urge to smirk in triumph. Suddenly, Jojo drooped, sighing. Lil crept up until she was standing next to the blonde, then casually removed her hands from her pockets, letting them hang loosely by her sides. After a few seconds, Jojo reached over and hooked her fingers with Lil’s.

“Can we go inside? I’m cold.”

Lil nodded, pulling Jojo closer. “Any preferences?”

Jojo shuffled her feet in the snow and shrugged. The night before, flakes had started pouring from the sky, and the girls had woken up with drifts at their feet, blown in through a broken window of the building they were sleeping in. Despite the cold and the snow and the wind, Jojo had insisted on moving. She hadn’t said as much, but Lil suspected that her fear of being caught by the Demons was stronger than her desire to be warm. 

Lil glanced up at the street signs again. They were no longer quite green, more of a shiny grey. One of them had half-fallen from the pole and was hanging limply in the wind. She cocked her head to read the name, then checked the buildings on the corners again.  
Huh. She actually did know where she was. It wasn’t anywhere near her apartment building, but she knew the area well enough. Her mother had only dragged her down this way about a million times. If she kept going past the floral shop on her left, the one that advertised for weddings in the summer and funerals in the winter, she’d get around to the diner with the pretty tablecloths and the old TV’s and the bad coffee. And beyond that, the major street that ran directly towards the mall.

She didn’t dare take a step in that direction. The rich neighborhoods were over there. So was West, and West meant Demons. Demons meant death. She didn’t really feel like dying today.

The hand in hers curled further into her palm. Jojo was looking up at her expectantly, snowflakes catching in her pigtails and sticking to her eyelashes. 

Hell, she might even feel a little bit like living today. 

“This is gonna sound weird,” Lil pointed down the street to the right, “but do you wanna go to a museum?”

\------

“Okay, when I agreed to this, I didn’t think you would actually take me to a museum.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“What is this, anyway?” Jojo released Lil’s hand momentarily so she could pick her way across a field of broken glass. It had come from a case, the frame of which was lying crumpled in a heap. An old diagram sat amongst the ruins. “A history museum?”

“Pretty much. This used to be a courthouse, but they built a new one and turned this one into a museum.” She caught Jojo’s hand in hers when the smaller girl had safely cleared the last of the glass. “I don’t think anyone’s here.”

“How do you know?”

Lil hopped over a cracked floorboard and nodded towards a tall wooden door with a padlock hanging inside the jamb. “That’s the gift shop.”

“So?”

“So it’s still locked.”

“Well, yeah, why would you wanna get in there?”

Lil rolled her eyes and gave Jojo her best unimpressed look. The blonde didn’t even flinch. Damn, she was gonna have to work on that. “Candy? Food? Water? That kind of stuff?”

Jojo’s face lit with understanding. “Ohhhhh…” 

Pulling Jojo towards the first-floor exhibits, Lil scoffed. “How is it that you survived out here, again?”

“Y’know, I’m pretty sure Providence has asked me that exact question.”

“I’m pretty sure that I’ve asked you that exact question.” Lil tested the door handle, satisfied when it barely budged. It would be difficult to get open, but the windows outside had looked pretty okay, meaning that the rewards would be worth it. Hopefully. She scoured her memory for the layout of the store, and, more specifically, where they’d kept their food. 

They arrived in one of the first galleries, and Lil slowed to read the informational placard. She hadn’t been to this museum in a long time--not since before the schools closed--and the exhibit theme was unfamiliar. The last time she’d been here, it had been about state parks. Now it was centered around toilets, of all things. Jojo continued on, releasing Lil’s hand in favor of puzzling over a toilet lid stuck to the wall.

“What the fuck?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“You’re the one who brought me here.”

“And that makes me an authority on exhibit choices, how?”

“Well, you know more than I do.”

“...Fuck.”

Jojo’s giggles resounded through the empty gallery, and Lil struggled to keep an exasperated scowl on her face, to keep playing along with their conversation. 

And then Jojo leaned up against her side, head knocking lightly against Lil’s shoulder, and the smile broke out against her will. When Jojo returned to her own personal space, she removed her cap, shaking out her bangs and sighing happily. The words bubbled up Lil’s throat and out her mouth before she had time to even think about stopping them. 

“You’re really cute, Jojo.”

Immediately, her face felt like it had caught fire. She clamped her lips shut, grinding her back molars together, and steadfastly studied the display in front of her for a solid minute before realizing that she was staring at artsy toilets. Who in the hell decided that a toilet need polka dots, anyway?

Next to her, she heard Jojo hum softly, tapping her hat against her thigh a few times. Then, abruptly, she replaced her hat on her head and headed for the next display.

_Shit._

Lil bit her tongue a few times before twisting her face into something resembling neutrality. Slowly, she followed Jojo to the end of the exhibit. At the door, Jojo leaned against the frame staring steadily down the hallway towards the water fountains. Lil paused next to her, unsure what to say, if there was, in fact, anything to say. 

“Um.”

Lil turned her head a little too quickly, and she grimaced when part of her hair hit her in the face. “Yeah?” 

“I think you’re pretty cute, too.” In the time it took Lil to blink, Jojo had moved out of the doorway and down to the next exhibit hall. She stared at the space Jojo had occupied before allowing herself a small victory fist-pump and following. 

Thankfully the next exhibit was about trains. Lil had never been so happy to see railroad tracks in her life.

\------

Jojo blinked slowly, then squinted. Despite the dying light, she could still just make out the line of the ceiling, high over her head. She flexed her toes inside her shoes, grimacing when a tiny stab of pain shot up her calf. Walking was one thing, standing on hardwood floors for hours on end was another. Maybe, when this whole thing was done and she’d taken Lil back to Lake Prudence, she could ask Providence for new shoes. Something with a better arch, preferably. 

The door creaked open, and she heard Lil’s footsteps approach the corner they’d claimed for sleeping. A few feet away, Lil dropped to her knees, muttering a small ‘oof’, then flopped back onto her blanket. 

She was silent for a few minutes, and Jojo almost thought she’d fallen asleep. Then, a small intake of breath, and Jojo turned her head to see the silhouette of Lil fold her arms over her chest. “My mom and I used to come here a lot.”

“Why? An obsession with toilet exhibits?”

A snort. “No.” Lil hugged herself tighter. “I think mom just liked this place. It’s quiet. It’s free.” She paused, then corrected herself. “Well, okay, it’s quiet and free now, because everyone’s dead. But it was always quiet and free.”

“Yeah, I got you.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because she wanted me to learn things, even though we didn’t have much money for the fancier museums.” She heard Lil roll over, became acutely aware of the warmth of the space between their faces, where their breath mingled. “I miss her.”

Jojo tried for a smile, glad that the growing darkness could hide the failure. She didn’t miss her mother, not that much. Maybe her sisters, maybe her brother. At times, she even missed her father. She missed her mother the least of all of them. 

Lil reached down and pulled her blanket closer around herself. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for going along with this. Going back to my house, I mean.”

Jojo managed an actual smile this time. “You’re welcome.” She tensed her muscles to move herself forward, to touch Lil’s face, her neck, her shoulder, anything, but reconsidered at the last second. Instead, she laughed awkwardly. “It’s still kinda dumb, though.”

Suddenly the sound of Lil’s breathing got closer, and Jojo felt a hand skirt her jaw and cup her cheek. She felt her heart short-circuit. 

“I know,” Lil leaned forward and bumped her forehead against Jojo’s. “But thanks, anyway.” 

Jojo narrowly avoided dying of a heart attack, opting to release a tiny, squeaky screech instead. 

\------

_Once upon a time, the World came to an end._

_Deep in a forest, a snake lived in a den. Every day, he emerged to slither through the leaves and bathe in the sunlight, to eat insects and to taste the air. He had lived by himself for a long time, but he was never really alone: he knew, from sound and sight and smell, that he wasn’t alone. The forest was alive with life, never silent._

_One day, when he crawled out of his den, something odd was in the air. He couldn’t place it. It was sweet, but foul. It was sour and bitter and enticing beyond anything he’d ever known. Following the scent, he found the body of a young rabbit, mangled and torn apart. The blood was still pouring from its mouth, the boils were still bursting underneath its fur._

_He didn’t dare touch it, but he couldn’t make himself leave. It was a long way back to his den, after all. And that scent, that sickening smell._

_The next morning, the scent had disappeared from the rabbit’s body. Flies crawled over its skin, maggots writhed in its eyes. The snake left, intending to return to his den._

_And then, again. The smell._

_He followed it again, straying further and further from his home. Soon, the leaves thinned, and the trees grew smaller and skinnier. He felt grass slide beneath his scales._

_Another body. The boils had already popped, the smell was heady and intoxicating here, as well. He wanted to touch, to taste, but whenever he got close his stomach turned._

_Again, he spent the night next to the body. This time, he kept one eye open, watching the flies and the beatles arrive. As their eggs hatched, as they gnawed away at the flesh, the smell diminished. By midnight the foul scent of rot set in._

_Turning back for his den--now very far away--he caught a wisp of sweet, bitter death. Up in the trees, now. He paused at the base of the tree, wondering if he should wander upwards. As the stars dimmed, he slithered around the trunk, bark rough against his ribs._

_An entire family of birds. All dead, all bursting from within, soaking the nest with blood and pus and the cloying black smell. As soon as he entered the nest, he touched it, felt the sting of something awful crawling underneath his skin. He stopped, he tried to go back, but the smell. The smell of something awful, something that crawled under the skin and tore the organs like paper._

_He lowered his head, flickered his tongue in and out. It tasted as foully beautiful as it smelled._

_By morning, he was dead, coiled around the birds, guts hanging out and tangling in the twigs. By noon, the flies were on him and the maggots crawled out of his mouth._

_The flies born of his blood flew his soul into the sky; he crawled his way into the stars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://8tracks.com/ladyfeb29/hot-stuff
> 
> ~~yes my gift to you is my shitty taste in music you're welcome~~
> 
> IT'S A SOCKATHAN PLAYLIST YAY   
> not specifically about Sock and Jonathan in this fic, just Sockathan. In general. 
> 
> tumblr post with track listings:  
> http://flingthefluelontheflire.tumblr.com/post/156783603849/check-out-this-playlist-on-8tracks-hot-stuff-by


	23. Reborn (V. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, I am still alive! 
> 
> Sorry for leaving you guys in the lurch :( Life keeps kicking my ass, and all I wanna do in my free time is sleep. But, to make it up to y'all, I made another present :D ~~It's more shitty music~~

Lil tilted her head back, mouth squeezing into a thin, hard line. The dark scars of a fire licked the upper sills of the windows, and part of the roof had collapsed. Nearly every pane of glass was shattered or cracked, half-melted curtains sticking to remaining shards and blowing pathetically in the wind. She focused in on a particular window on the third floor, straining to peek at the walls inside. 

Next to her, Jojo was cautiously and uncharacteristically silent. In her hand, she held the remains of a stick of rock candy, idly flicking it between her thumb and index finger. Finally, Lil exhaled slowly and leaned towards Jojo. 

“I don’t--” Lil’s voice came out hoarse and too quiet, and she cleared her throat. “I don’t know if we can get in through the front door.”

“I’m not willing to test it out, no.” Jojo licked the rock candy stick one last time before dropping it in the snow. Waving away the tiny pang of guilt--why would littering matter in a world that was basically covered in garbage?--she crept forward, towards the stairs to the entrance. The door was crumpled under the weight of the building, glass cracked but sticking together in one huge, spiderwebbed sheet. 

“I’m gonna look around back.” With that, Lil turned and walked slowly around the left side of the building, stepping carefully over the snow. She could hear the crunch of glass and rock under her feet.

“How far up do we need to go, anyway?” Jojo squinted up towards the roof as she followed Lil, trying to reconstruct what the top half of the building might’ve looked like before it collapsed. Five floors, maybe?

“Third floor. It’s the front side.” 

“You think it’s...okay?”

Lil snorted, turning another corner and walking over to another door, this one less damaged. Hell, it even still had a handle. “No.”

Jojo hummed distractedly as Lil gently pulled the door open. It stuck a little in the jamb, but two tries was all it took for the whole thing to swing forward shakily. A cobweb floated down from somewhere above their heads, and Lil waved it away from her face. It caught on her fingers, and while she wiped it off on her pants, Jojo whispered, “What even happened here?”

Lil picked the last of the web off her nails. For a few minutes, she said nothing, just stared down the dimly lit hallway. At last, she swallowed heavily and crossed over the threshold. “Fire.”

Following quietly, Jojo wrinkled her nose as dust and soot billowed up from the ruined carpet. “Why? Ramot?”

Abruptly, Lil stopped at a heavy metal door, labelled “Stairway: Use In Case Of Fire”. She traced her fingers on the handle and nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure who, though.”

“Does it matter?”

Gripping the handle, Lil shrugged weakly. “I guess not.”

The door opened unwillingly, screeching the entire way. Jojo reached up to cover her ears, until suddenly Lil’s eyes widened and she tried shoving it closed again. Something behind the door shifted, collapsed, and flopped into the gap.

It was black and skinny and flakes of it were falling off onto the carpet.

“Oh. Oh God. Ew, God, ew!” Jojo took her hands off her ears and turned to stare resolutely at the ceiling, trying to hold the contents of her stomach down. Lil made a quiet noise of disgust and slid the door open a little further. 

The smell hit Jojo a second later, and she hastily slapped both her hands over her nose and mouth. Tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. Behind her, Lil sighed, then reached out and placed a hand on Jojo’s shoulder.

“Okay. Okay, it’ll be okay. There’s a pile of bodies behind the door--” Jojo groaned, and Lil squeezed her shoulder a little. “There aren’t that many. Just turn around and I’ll help you get over them, okay?”

“No, y’know, I think I’ll just. Wait down here.”

“Jojo.” The hand on her shoulder tightened, started trying to pull her around. She caught a glimpse of Lil’s growing frown. “Please.”

A glance down towards the doorway told her that the pile wasn’t as innocuous as Lil was trying to make it. More than two, maybe more than three. All burned. Her throat started tightening, and her stomach gurgled. “I can’t.”

“J--” Lil sighed and took her hand from the door, holding it with her foot instead. “Look at me.” Forcefully, she tried to turn Jojo further around so they could see each other’s eyes. Jojo resisted, focused too much on the bodies, too much on the acrid smell of smoke and the taste of rock candy creeping up her esophagus. “Not at them. Me. Look at me.”

Steeling herself, Jojo wrenched her eyes away from the bodies and up to Lil’s face. Tightly, “What?”

“I know why you don’t wanna go, okay?” Jojo grimaced, resisted the urge to stare at the source of her discomfort and nodded. “But I. I can’t--” Lil paused, and Jojo noticed for the first time the tautness of Lil’s throat, the wateriness of her eyes. Without thinking, she reached up to brush her fingers against Lil’s cheek. Gathering herself, Lil continued. “I can’t do this without you.”

Jojo huffed a quiet laugh. “You could.” 

“I can’t.” Lil intertwined her fingers with Jojo’s still-raised hand. “I need you up there with me.”

“For what? Moral support?”

Lil cracked a little smile and leaned into Jojo’s palm. “Something like that, yeah.”

Something fell behind the door as Lil’s foot shifted positions, and both girls jumped. Releasing a bubble of nervous laughter, Jojo resolutely kept her eyes on Lil. “Shall we?”

\------

“Oh Christ there’s more.”

“This was an awful idea. Lil? Lil I wanna go back.”

“We’re already on floor two, just hang in there a little longer.”

“I dunno if my stomach can make it that far.”

“It’ll be oka--hey, no, don’t you dare--”

\------

“....”

“....”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, just...please, not so close to my shoes, next time.”

“I’ll try.”

“....”

“....”

“...Why is it fuckin’ blue?”

“Because someone decided to eat blue raspberry rock candy this morning?”

“Oh, ew.”

\------

Her room had always been a mess, but this was something else.

Lil cautiously stepped over a spot in the floor that was dipping dangerously. The fire had done a number on the entire building, but it was the collapsed roof that ended up totalling her room. Part of her neighbor’s bathroom was sitting on her bed, and on top of that was a desk from the fifth floor. The entire place was coated in a thick film of plaster, dust, soot, and mold. 

She heard Jojo rummaging around in the living room and picked up the pace, carefully picking her way across the wreckage of what was once her bedroom. There were some features that had survived every disaster--her closet door was remarkably intact, as was the left half of her desk. 

It was under her desk that she finally found Cleo, after five minutes of frantically scanning the debris. 

Cleo’s body was dry and dessicated. Her skin clung tightly to her ribs, stomach all but gone. Lil bit her lip and passed a hand over Cleo’s bunched-up face. She looked so small. 

Briefly, Lil let her mind wander, wondering how long it had taken for Cleo to die. There wasn’t really any way out of the building, at least not for a cat. Probably most damning of all was the fact that Lil’s door had been closed when the girls crept inside.

With no way out, she’d probably starved to death. 

Something wet rolled down Lil’s cheek, and she rubbed it away quickly. Delicately, she reached to the back of Cleo’s neck, unclipping the thin, purple collar that she wore. The clink of the tags rang loudly in the stillness of the room. She slipped the collar into her backpack.

Standing, Lil tiptoed over to the area where her bed had once been and yanked a half-rotted blanket out from beneath a block of her ceiling. She lay the blanket over Cleo, fitting it around the tiny body. 

It didn’t feel like enough, but she didn’t know what else to do. 

“Jojo?” Creeping back out into the hallway, she whispered for her companion. A cough and a shuffle from down the hall caught her attention. 

The hallway outside her room was almost worse than her bedroom itself. There was a gaping hole in the floor, for one thing, and for another, the right-hand wall had almost completely collapsed. Toeing the edge of the hole, Lil strained to see where Jojo might be. “Jojo? You okay?”

Another short cough, then “Yeah, gimme a sec.” Jojo stumbled out of the bathroom a few seconds later.

Lil scoffed, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “How’s the toilet looking?”

Jojo, who was in the middle of preparing to hop back over the hole, suddenly snapped her head up. There was something in her eyes, for a split second, that Lil couldn’t quite place. 

Just as quickly, the look was gone, and Jojo was smirking. “Pretty bad.” She bent her knees, gave herself a bit of a running start, and launched herself over the hole. Landing next to Lil, she pulled her towards the exit. “D’you find it?”

“...Yeah.” Lil tried to glance back over her shoulder, to try and peek inside the bathroom, but Jojo insistently yanked her to the apartment door. Shrugging, she turned her attention back to Jojo. “Yeah, I found it.”

“Cool.” Approaching the door to the stairwell, Jojo pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose. Her next question came out muffled by fabric. “Why’d you want it, anyway?”

Lil twisted her hand so that she could mesh her fingers with Jojo’s. “I’ll tell you when we get outside, ‘kay?”

\------

“‘If Found Return to Apt. 312.’”

“Mostly it’s the other one.”

“‘Magill and Tabitha’s Precious Kitty-cat, Cleo,’” Jojo stumbled as she tried to hold in her giggles. “The heart at the end is a nice touch.”

Lil took the tags from Jojo, rubbing her thumb over the inscription on the second one. “My mom gave it to me for Christmas one year ‘cuz I wouldn’t stop bothering her to get a present for Cleo.”

“Damn, you really are a crazy cat lady, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I learned my lesson.” Lil tucked the tags away safely in her bag, then casually flung an arm around Jojo’s shoulders. The two girls were sitting in the pizza place down the street from Lil’s apartment building, keeping out of sight by sitting behind a booth. Outside, the snow had started up again, light and soundless as it fell through holes in the windows. “After that, I just bought treats for Cleo myself.”

Jojo rolled her eyes, but settled into the empty space next to Lil regardless. “You’re fucking weird, y’know that?”

Placing her cheek on top of Jojo’s head, Lil chanced pressing her lips to Jojo’s temple. “Not a whole lotta room to talk, darlin’.”

\------

_Once upon a time, the World came to an end._

_They came from the forests, walking on two legs. Peering out over tall grasses, they made the world their own. They created and destroyed, consumed and procreated. They spread over the world like a wildfire, like weeds, like parasites. In their hands, they held tools. They held the means of war and art in a single palm, and treated it like it was nothing._

_They lived for ages. And with the ages came the worry: what did life mean? As their numbers grew to millions, billions, the purpose of living seemed to fade. Why live when there were so many alive? What could one possibly contribute to the world that another could not?_

_And then they started dying._

_It started in a small village, wiped out within days. From there it spread, infecting any living thing with decay. It seemed that the sun would set on healthy cities, and rise on dead ones. They coughed up bile and blood. Sores covered their skin. The boils burst at the slightest movement and covered the ground with vile poison. Once started, there was no stopping. At first thousands, then millions._

_Who knows how many died? How many slept through their demise? How many were never found because their families were frantically trying to escape certain death?_

_Escape was--is--difficult. But it was--is--possible._

_No, we didn’t all die. It was a near miss, but we survived._

_Every human that died had a life. A story. A myth. We could fill every page on Earth with stories about the humans who died, and run out of paper before we ran out of tales._

_And now we wonder: what does life mean? What can we possibly do when the World has died?_

_The purpose of life is this. It is scribbled pages in green and orange crayon. It is lighting candles with broken matches. It is wrapping your arms around another and feeling their warmth melt into yours. It is about gradual change, from life to death and life again._

_Once upon a time, the World ended. And many years later, it was reborn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, present! I was gonna give this to y'all anyway, but then we reached 300 kudos, so consider this a celebration of that :D
> 
> 8tracks link: https://8tracks.com/ladyfeb29/beautiful-warm
> 
> On Tumblr, with track listings: http://flingthefluelontheflire.tumblr.com/post/159058951839/beautiful-warm-a-liljo-playlist-track-listing


	24. Center of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOI THIS IS LATE
> 
> I really have no excuse for this, I'm so sorry for the wait :( 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who has commented and left kudos! They always brighten my day :)
> 
> A special thank you to InfaWrit10, without whom this chapter probably would not have gotten done <3

“Christ, are we almost there? My arm feels like it’s gonna fall off.”

“Yeah, yeah. There’s the Sandwich, see?”

“Oh, yeah.” Troy shuffled a bit to the left to avoid the feet sticking out off the curb. At one time, he’d been able to remember Sandwich’s name. Something like Robert or Richard or something equally dumb. Whatever, he’d been a third-rate Breeder at best. Poor bastard had been unlucky enough to die by being crushed by a Subway sign that fell off the posts just down the street from The Office. 

Normally, Michael would be reading off the street signs by now, as they inched closer to The Office, heavy blue tarp swinging between them. But then again, normally both of them would be able to see where they were going, too, which was a luxury this damn snow was taking away from them. 

Another gust of wind roared down the street, blanketing Troy and Michael with another layer of sleet. The package they were carrying was twisting and yanking them backwards worse and worse with every blast, and Troy swore he could feel his shoulder slowly being dislocated. 

By the time they made it to the block in front of The Office, his arm was numb. At least here, the wind was checked by the tall buildings on both sides of the street. Sometime in the distant, pre-apocalypse past, Michael could recall driving down West and watching all the corporate shills trodding through the doors, briefcases and cell phones in hand, clean and professional and successful. He’d hated them then; but now, their relics served as dormitories. 

And really, after the apocalypse, four mold-stained walls and a single cracked window were goddamn blessings if they came with a roof over your head. 

The Office was not an office building. It was The Office. It loomed over everything else, mottled grey concrete and black windows, and a single silver revolving door at the front, through which, in just the right light, you could see the lobby. Neither Michael nor Troy had ever been inside the lobby. No one went inside the lobby, except Mephistopheles. The Office belonged to Mephistopheles, and anyone else was only a guest in the dangerous and tenuous graces of its sole inhabitant. 

As they approached The Office, Michael gently started leading them towards the right side of the road, then up onto the curb and down an alleyway. A few Demons sat outside one of the dorm doors, smoking torn-up paper to keep their lungs warm and full. Sometimes, when the meat was coming out lean and the Scavengers came up empty, lungs full of smoke and a tongue of ash could mimic a full stomach. One of the Demons coughed, leaning over to peek at the bundle slowly and awkwardly being folded between Michael and Troy. Troy yanked the package away, scowling.

Hunters always got first dibs, after Mephistopheles. A dumb lackey Breeder had no right to even sniff the blood coming out of the dead man’s head, much less get a look at the goods.

That was reserved for Mephistopheles, after all. And Tom, if you counted Mephistopheles’ right hand as someone with superior dibs and rights. 

For their own safety, most Demons did. 

After inspection, the poor dead sack-of-shit currently undergoing a half-assed deep freeze would be sent to the butchers. With frozen fingers and dull knives, they would separate his skin from his muscles, his muscles from his bones, his viscera from their linings. Blood was nothing. Blood was inedible. It would roll down the drain in the middle of the kitchen, a hazard to anyone walking too quickly and not looking where they were going.

Broken legs and arms were nothing. Broken legs and arms meant more food.

Mephistopheles always took first pick. Then Tom, then the Hunter that got the meat, then the other Hunters, then the Butchers, then the Scavengers, and last, the Breeders. 

They entered The Office through a supply door in the back, which was currently coated in a thick layer of ice. Michael struggled with the latch, clumsily trying to break open the frozen lock with fingers numb from cold and strain. Finally, just as he considered risking setting his side of the tarp down on the ground and bruising good meat, crunching footsteps approached from behind. Troy turned, frowning, momentarily thinking it was the cocky Breeder again, and prepared to rip him a new one.

“Need some help, fellas?”

Troy froze, grimace in place. Harlan. Jesus, it had to be Harlan, didn’t it? The wrinkled, pale face peeking out of a tattered wool scarf leered at him, studying him, taking his DNA apart for viable breeding. Shuddering, Troy shrugged and squinted at the hunched figure behind Harlan. 

Michael stiffened, but turned his head and mumbled, “Yeah, sure.”

“Allow me,” Harlan pushed forward, and the person behind him made to step back. “Ah, no, Mara, you’re up here with me, sweetie.”

Feeling their hearts sink, Troy and Michael watched Mara shuffle towards the front of the group. She had the hood of her coat pulled far over her eyes, and seemed to be glaring at the ground. She radiated rage and fear, and both for good reason. 

A woman with Harlan meant one of two things: she was pregnant, or was going to be pregnant soon. Harlan was a special kind of disgusting, a deviant even among Demons. Over the summer, he’d connived and cheated and, some speculated, even killed his way to the top of the Breeder food chain. Someone trying to be polite might call him ‘old fashioned’, but anyone else knew the truth: he was scum, the leftover vomit of a population that wanted their women barefoot and pregnant. He believed, above all else, that everyone was a slave to their genes, and that certain traits were better than others.   
In a former life, Michael might have decked him in the face and spit on him as he walked away. Now, he didn’t even dare look him in the eye too long. Harlan could read your ancestry, and if he deemed you suitable, he could drag you down into the bowels of the breeding program within a week. Even if you were a Hunter, as was plain by Mara’s presence and rigid posture.

Michael watched Harlan shatter the ice on the lock with one well-aimed blow. The old man then flipped it open easily, holding the door for them. “After you, Mara. Gentlemen.”

As Michael and Troy stumbled in, Michael tried to make eye contact with Mara, tried to ask what was going on without speaking. He didn’t particularly like her--and, he suspected, she felt the same way about him--but a Hunter was a Hunter, and when it came to Harlan, sheer revulsion could overcome any amount of loathing. Mara ducked her head, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He sighed, about to turn away, when he caught Mara’s lips moving. Squinting, he could just barely understand what she was trying to say:

_Help me._

Nodding once, he turned to make sure Troy was through the door, and that Harlan’s back was turned, closing the lock on the inside. Michael shuffled the tarp to catch Troy’s attention, then signaled towards Mara, towards Harlan, then shook his head. _Don’t let her leave with him._

Troy grimaced, glancing at Harlan as he caught up with the group, and nodded shortly. _Got it._

The plodding trip up six flights of stairs to Mephistopheles’ apartments felt like it took forever. The stairwell was dimly lit on a good day, and now, with the remnants of a snowstorm passing over, it quickly became next to impossible to see. Regardless, Harlan carefully kept Mara in front, in his line of sight. Between making sure they weren’t about to trip over cracked concrete and heaving the tarp around tight corners, Michael and Troy kept their eyes on Harlan. If the older man noticed the extra attention, he didn’t let on.

Around floor five, Halan suddenly reached for Mara’s arm and halted the entire group. “I believe Miss Mara and I should see Mephistopheles first, if you’ll excuse us.” Snatching Mara’s wrist in a pale, bony hand, he began tugging her towards the next flight. She began protesting, pulling away, but Harlan yanked her forward. “And,” he added, reaching for Mara’s face, “take off that damn hood when you’re around your superiors, young lady.”

Michael swore Mara actually snarled, trying again to back away. “Fuck off.”

“Uh,” From the back, Troy moved to intervene. “Y’know, maybe we can all go in. At the same time.” Harlan gaped, then started to protest. Troy interrupted before he could get out much more than an offended grunt. “Inspection don’t take too long, right? And you can do your business with Mephistopheles in the meantime, man.”

Harlan squinted, considering. For a sickening few seconds, all three Hunters thought he would reject Troy’s plan, dragging Mara into a solo audience--a helpless dog in a pit of snakes that was governed by a lion--but finally, he shrugged and moved aside to allow Michael and Troy to continue on up the stairs. 

Floor six of The Office was the last floor still viable to live on, and it, like the lobby, belonged only to Mephistopheles. Other parts of The Office might be considered public spaces, if one was very generous with the definition of ‘public’. The infirmary, for one thing, was open only to those in the upper echelons (and those with friends in the upper echelons). Of course, it was little more than a run-down closet filled with whatever bottles of pills the Scavengers could salvage from collapsed and ransacked pharmacies and grocery stores. The kitchen was also public, although the only people who dared go through when the Butchers were at work were those with chores or death wishes. It wasn’t confirmed, but rumors ran that some Butchers would turn their knives on hapless commuters without provocation. And the blood, the blood was always a death trap. 

Again, Harlan held the door open for the group as they entered the hallway leading to Mephistopheles’ apartments. It was brighter up here, and slightly less cold--Mephistopheles had a notorious disregard for fire safety, and tended to light piles of trash on fire whenever convenient. The carpet of the hallway was stained with the blood of old kills, dirt from the shoes of hundreds of Demons and thousands of victims. It was here that potential recruits were brought; and it was from here that most were dragged by their feet down into the kitchens below. 

Harlan grabbed Mara’s wrist again, leading her towards the second door on the right side of the hallway--the Reception Room. It was here, nine times out of ten, that Mephistopheles could be found: watching the underlings scurry about on the streets below him, eating well-cooked meals, and generally trying to ignore the more morally bankrupt aspects of his operations. 

That was, of course, until the morally bankrupt aspects came up to him. 

Knocking gently on the door, Harlan attempted to yank Mara closer to him, only to find that she was rooted in place, glaring pointedly at him and pulling her hood back onto her head. Harlan’s face went a little red on the cheeks, and he was about to snap the offending cowl back off when the door opened.  
Harlan straightened back out immediately, grinning sheepishly. “Tom! How nice to see you looking well.”

“Hm.” Tom scanned the group silently, taking in the tarp, the looks of panicked caution on Troy and Michael’s faces, and Harlan’s hand still wrapped around Mara’s wrist. The situation was clear. Opening the door further, he jerked his head to usher them inside, keeping a steady eye on Harlan.   
“Thank you, Tom. Now, I need to see Mephistopheles about--”

“Hm.” Tom held up a hand, stopping the group in their tracks, and went towards a large desk in the back of the room. For a moment, he paused, then leaned over to look behind the desk, shook his head, and grabbed a ruler from a mug sitting next to a dead computer monitor. Leaning far over, he slapped something behind the desk. Said something snorted, then muttered, “Ow.”

“Hm?”

“Geez, can’t a man take a nap in peace?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, visitors? Why didn’t you just say so, ya old coot?” Slowly, from behind the desk, an unmistakable tuft of orange hair rose as its owner hauled himself into a seated position. 

By the time Mephistopheles had gotten himself up off the floor, Tom had escorted everyone into the Reception Room proper, and had plopped down behind a second, smaller desk off to the side. A pencil and paper pad sat in front of him. 

“Ok, so.” Mephistopheles stretched his arms far over his head, leaning back on his desk. “What’ve we got?”

“Inspection, sir.” Michael came forward before Harlan had a chance to say anything, dragging the tarp and Troy behind him. 

“Price, Gunner, welcome back. And there’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Price. We’re all friends here, right?” Mephistopheles leaned over to grab an edge of the tarp, and shot Michael a smile that fell somewhere between comforting and threatening. Michael pursed his lips and nodded.

Michael and Troy gently set down the package, allowing Mephistopheles to kneel down and peel back the edges of the tarp. He clicked his tongue when he saw the gash in the man’s head. “What have I told you about leaving so much damage?” Mephistopheles poked at the crushed bone surrounding the wound and sighed unhappily, “Now I won’t be able to eat all the brains.”

Michael swallowed heavily. “Sorry, sir.”

“Now, now, you don’t need to apologize. Just need to be more careful. Like Braggs here,” he motioned to Mara, who was sticking as close to Tom’s desk as possible, “or like Soc--er, Sowachowski.”

Michael heard Troy expel a soft huff of air at Mephistopheles’ mistake. It was no secret that Mephistopheles had favorites, and that there were two among those favorites that were damn near untouchable: Tom, and Sowachowski. The twink. Speaking of…

“We found Sowachowski, sir. Delivered your note to him.”

That grabbed Mephistopheles’ attention. “Did you? Good, good. Tell me how he is, after I’m done with…” He folded the tarp back over the dead man and rolled his eyes as he stood back up, “...whatever Mr. Gardener has to say.”

“Thank you, sir.” Harlan tightened his grip on Mara and attempted to drag her over towards Mephistopheles, without much luck. “I’d like to take this one into the Breeding Program.”

“Uh, ok.” Mephistopheles cocked and eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why, exactly?”

“She’s preg--”

“I’m not fucking pregnant!” Mara snapped, wrenching her arm away from Harlan, nearly sending the old man falling to the floor. 

Mephistopheles watched Harlan right himself and quietly said, “No need for violence just yet, Braggs.” Harlan opened his mouth to scold Mara, but Mephistopheles interrupted him. “What’s going on here? Help me out, I’m confused.”

Both Mara and Harlan started in at the same time, “She missed--” 

“I missed my--”

“One at a time, dammit!” The room fell silent at Mephistopheles’ raised voice. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Harlan?”

Harlan puffed his chest in triumph, and Mara glowered at him while he spoke. “Well, Mephistopheles, sir, Miss Braggs has missed her last period, meaning that she is pregnant.”

“I’m not,” Mara hissed.

Mephistopheles glanced over towards Tom, who rose from behind his desk, carrying the pencil and notepad. “Do you have proof that she’s pregnant?”

“Yes, sir, she hasn’t gotten her period!”

“That’s not fucking proof!” Mara bit out the words, advancing on Harlan threateningly. 

“Hm.” Tom held out an arm to keep Mara from going too far. Mephistopheles nodded.

“I agree completely, Tom. Circumstantial, at best.”

“Thank you!” Mara folded her arms over her chest and scowled at Harlan, who glared right back.

“Well, what else could it be?”

“Oh, I dunno--stress, bad nutrition, losing weight?” To make her point, Mara lifted up the bottom of her coat to reveal the top of her pants, which were being held in place by a tightly cinched length of string. The bunched up fabric was telling of how many inches she’d lost off of her stomach since she stumbled into the Demon camp almost a year ago, covered in the blood of strangers.

“Hm.”

“That’s a good point, Tom.” Mephistopheles started picking at his nails in contemplation. “So Braggs, how ‘bout this.” A quick snap from Mephistopheles, and Tom started writing out the plan on the notepad. “Since you’re under so much stress, maybe it’s best for you to stay out of the field until your, uh, ‘time of the month’ gets back onto a regular schedule.”

Mara looked taken aback. “What?”

“Yep, sounds good to me. Braggs, you’re on probation for the foreseeable future.” With that, Mephistopheles clapped his hands together and turned to sit in his swivel chair behind the desk.

“What? What do you mean, ‘probation’?” 

“I mean that you’re going to stay here until further notice, Braggs.” Mephistopheles folded his hands on top of the desk and smiled. “Is there a problem, here?”

Mara was silent for a good while, weighing her options, and finally decided on the one least likely to result in her death. “Fine.”

“Good.” Mephistopheles took the sheet of notepad paper from Tom, looked it over, picked up a pen, and scribbled his signature on it. “Well, since that’s all settled,” he turned his chair to face Harlan, “I believe you know the way out, Mr. Gardener.”

Harlan mumbled in the affirmative, backing away from Mephistopheles’ desk. Then, quickly, when Mephistopheles was distracted in handing the paper back over to Tom for filing, he leaned over close to Mara and whispered, “I’ll get you in the program someday, whore.”

Mara snorted. “Fat chance, fuckface.” There was a twinge of fear laying somewhere deep under her words. It was entirely possible that, someday, she’d be herded down into the Breeding pens. She’d seen the process once, and once was enough: raped and impregnated, chained down to the floor, and forced to languish on the brink of starvation for nine months while they watched their bellies swell. Their babies were born in the midst of screaming. They weren’t allowed to hold them, not even once. Everything was taken from those women--their freedom, their consent, their children, their lives. 

She didn’t look down into the Breeding pens often. Sometimes, when she chanced a glance, she could feel desperation palpable in the air, the rattling of the chains sat heavy and sour on the back of her tongue, the screaming pierced her eardrums like needles.

Oh, god, the screaming. It never seemed to stop.

Once Harlan was out of the room, and the abrupt open-close of the stairwell door was heard, Mephistopheles turned his attention back to Michael and Troy.

“So, Sowachowski.”

“Yeah, we found him.”

“Where, may I ask?”

“Uh,” shit, Michael knew he should’ve looked at the signs along the road. “It was, um, a little place south of here.”

“There are a lot of ‘little places’ south of here, Price.”

“It was--shit, um, there was a gas station, and a bar with a sign that had wheat on it--”

“Judd?” Mara interrupted, exasperated. Out of all the Hunters, she was the one most preoccupied with maps and the names of small towns--pretty much for this exact reason.

“I dunno, sounds right.”

Mephistopheles paused, then pulled open a drawer and placed a map of the city and the surrounding areas out on his desk. After a moment of studying the area south of town, he tapped the map once, then whistled. “Little far out of our bounds, innit?”

Michael shrugged. “Didn’t have time to ask him too many questions, sir.”

“Did he say when he was coming back to base?”

Swallowing hard, Michael winced. The answer was bad, but the circumstances surrounding the answer were worse. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“Oh?” Mephistopheles placed his chin in one hand looking Michael uncomfortably in the eye. “And why’s that?”

“Uh, well, we were…” Michael tried to choose his next words carefully. From behind him, he heard Troy shift uneasily. “We were busy.”

“With?”

“Hunting.”

“You didn’t steal Sowachowski’s prey, did you?” Mephistopheles chuckled. “You know he’s awfully possessive of his kills.”

“No,” Michael answered, at the same time Troy shrugged and made an ‘I don’t know’ noise.

Mephistopheles focused his attention on Troy, making the man tense under his gaze. “What was that, Gunner?”

Troy glanced at Michael, looking for direction. Receiving nothing but panic, he mumbled, “We might have tried stealing his prey.”

“What does ‘might have’ mean, in this context?”

“There…” Troy’s eyes darted around the room, trying desperately to avoid Mephistopheles. “There was a guy with him. Young guy.” When Mephistopheles cocked an eyebrow in repsonse, Troy cleared his throat awkwardly and continued. “We chased the other guy into a house. Didn’t know he was with the Tw--Sowachowski. He stopped us from killing him.” 

Michael picked up, trying to relieve some of the pressure from Troy. “He said he was just Scouting, but the night before--” He trailed off as Mephistopheles returned focus to him, twice as intense this time. “He was with the guy. Eating with him. Kinda, uh, y’know.”

“No, Price, I do not know. Please, enlighten me.” Mephistopheles flicked a finger towards Tom, who slowly picked up the pad of paper and pencil again.  
“It looked like they were flirting, sir.”

Mephistopheles’ expression went flat. “What.”

Troy came forward, and proceeded to break the news in the least tactful way possible: “Like they were screwin’ each other, or something.”

The next few seconds were a barrage of flying limbs and curse words and shouting, and in the end Michael and Troy found themselves outside in the hallway with their kill tossed unceremoniously on top of them, the door slammed in their face by a surprisingly emotional Tom.

Mara, still in the room, stood stock still as Mephistopheles continued his hurricane of activity around her. Tom hurried after him into the next room, where clothes and blankets and a duffel bag were thrown around in haphazard order. She had almost worked up the courage to move when Mephistopheles and Tom came raging back into the Reception Room. Mephistopheles was adjusting the strap on his bag, tugging down the hem of his coat, and zipping up side pockets as he went. 

“I’m going out; Tom, you’re in charge while I’m away.”

“Hm.”

Mara, sure that she shouldn’t be privy to this conversation, started tip-toeing towards the door. Suddenly, “Braggs!”

She stopped short, sighed, and turned to face Mephistopheles. He was mostly put together now, just pulling a hat down over his orange hair. In a voice that dripped with just enough saccharine sweetness to hide the wrath underneath he said, “Mara, honey, since you’re on probation and don’t have anything better to do, why don’t you help out Tom while I’m away? Ok, thanks, take care, bye.”

With that, he flew through the door and down the hallway.

In the silent aftermath, Mara was left gaping at the door while Tom tore off another sheet from the pad, read it over, and scribbled his own signature at the bottom of the page. Quietly, he pulled the swivel chair closer to the large desk and sat down behind it.

“So--wait.” Mara spun to confront Tom, “What does ‘helping you’ mean? Do I--?” She motioned over to the smaller desk where Tom had sat earlier.

“Hm.”

“Fffuck.” Mara drew out the word dramatically as she flopped against the desk--her desk, now, at least for the time being.

The two Demons sat in silence for a long while. Eventually, Mara rose and started pacing around the room. Probation? Helping Tom? What the fuck did Tom even actually do? Besides give excellent worldly advice, of course.

At a window, she paused. Down below, she could see into one of the alleyways bordering The Office. Harlan was there, approaching a cold-looking bunch of Breeders, and chasing them back into their dormitory. Before he entered the building himself, he looked back up at The Office, towards the sixth floor.  
For a moment, Mara wondered whether he could even see her from down there, but a prickling started on the back of her neck regardless.

And then Harlan’s face split in a soulless, rotted grin, and Mara’s heart froze in her chest.

Backing away from the window slowly, she tried to regain her bearings. He couldn’t get to her up here. There was nothing to be worried about. The pens weren’t for her, they weren’t, she wasn’t going to be screaming for her life anytime soon--

She bumped into the corner of the large desk abruptly, and yelped. Tom looked up from the notepad. “Hm?”

“Nothing, Tom. Nothing.” Mara steadied her breathing, resting a hand on her stomach. 

There was nothing to worry about. She hadn’t had sex in months. She couldn’t be pregnant. She wasn’t pregnant. And dear god, as long as Harlan was still breathing she never would be pregnant.

Actually. That was an idea. 

“Hey, Tom?”

“Hm?”

“Mephistopheles said you were in charge while he’s looking for Sowachowski, right?”

“Hm.”

“So that means you--we--could start, y’know, evaluating things around here.”

Tom pushed away from the desk and centered his attention on Mara. “Hm?”

“Oh, well, I was just thinking.” Mara walked around the side of the desk and leaned casually next to Tom, trying to mask the way her hands were still shaking. “Isn’t it about time we reorganized our priorities? Starting with, say,” she shot him a meaningful look, “the Breeding program?”

It only took two seconds for Tom to grasp the whole of what Mara was suggesting. Slowly, a satisfied smile broke out across his face.

“Hm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....AND THEN SHIT HIT THE FAN
> 
> I have another playlist for you all! I should really add this ship to the tags, but probably not till later ;)
> 
> https://8tracks.com/ladyfeb29/so-above-so-below
> 
> On tumblr, with tracklisting: http://flingthefluelontheflire.tumblr.com/post/162845519739/so-above-so-below-a-proveles-playlist-track


	25. Shopping, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I managed to write another chapter without it taking months WHAT A TWIST
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos!! I value each and every one :) <3
> 
> We're back with Sockathan, this chapter ;)

“Jonathan?”

“Hm?”

“You awake?”

“Muh.”

“It snowed last night.”

“Fuh.”

“You wanna go outside?”

“Neh.”

“I promise I won’t dump ice down your shirt again.”

“Pff.”

“Are you just gonna talk to me in gibberish today?”

“Meh.” Jonathan shrugged one shoulder, the one not pressed into the mattress, and cracked open an eye. Blurrily, he could see Sock sticking his tongue out at him, duvet pulled down a few inches from where it had sat all night on his nose. He smirked, wrapping the arm curled around Sock’s waist tighter. The cold air outside the covers was anything but enticing right now.

But it appeared that, this morning, Sock would not be contained by mere cloth and one lacklusterly-muscled arm. Soon, he was wiggling around to escape, and letting in a good helping of winter air underneath the covers. “Dude, what? Stop lifting the sheets.”

Sock hauled himself onto his stomach, and then up onto his elbows. Reluctantly, Jonathan retracted his arm, allowing Sock more room to move. Stretching, Sock sighed. “God, I’m so hot.”

Smirking, Jonathan rolled onto his back and enjoyed the view as Sock extended his arms up over his head and arched his back. When under the covers, Sock had elected to ditch all his layers except his t-shirt. Jonathan had voiced concern for Sock’s warmth while also running his hands all over Sock’s waist and the small of his back. For whatever reason, the coat and vest remained off. 

And last night. Last night he’d swallowed all of Sock’s gasps and finally worked up the courage to slip his hands up under that blue cotton shirt and god it felt amazing.

Unfortunately, he’d chickened out of it a little soon, retracting his arms and flipping over onto his other side before he did something he might regret in the morning. Oh well, maybe next time. 

When he was finally done stretching, Sock relaxed his shoulders and sat back on his haunches. Slowly, he blinked once, twice, and then mumbled, “I feel gross.”

That caught Jonathan’s attention. “What? Like sick?”

“No,” Sock itched at his collarbone with his fingernails, leaving faint red streaks across the skin, “like dirty-gross.”

“Oh.” Jonathan supposed that made sense. Since they had arrived at the motel, they’d left the confines of the building only to scurry between rooms and to scout the premises. (It was during one of these expeditions that Sock had decided to shove an entire snowball down Jonathan’s hoodie.) 

Otherwise, all their time had been spent inside. For the entire week they’d been there, it seemed like they woke up to a fresh layer of powder on the ground outside. And even though they’d made sure to make their main room one with a south-facing window, the sound of the storms outside still kept them awake some nights. 

It wasn’t too bad, except for the boredom and the quickly-dwindling food supply. Sock had found a deck of cards in the office, and for the last three days they’d been running through every single game they could remember, and probably butchering the rules to the majority of them. It was decently fun, at least until one of their stomachs grumbled and both boys looked over to the shrunken bag of food sitting in the corner, the sparse leftovers from the gas station in Judd. 

By now, most of the covers were bunched up at Jonathan’s waist, and he blindly reached over the side of the bed for his hoodie. Meanwhile, Sock was sliding off the edge of the mattress, feet gently hitting the carpet before sliding into his boots. “I’m gonna go pee.”

“I’ll alert the media.” Jonathan finally caught the edge of the hoodie, pulling it up and over his bare forearms. Christ, the room was cold.

Sock snorted, leaning back over the mattress to peck Jonathan on the lips. “Thanks, babe.” With that, he sauntered out the door to the toilet room--number 10, down the row. In a fit of decent foresight, Jonathan had suggested not doing their business in the same room they slept in. It had been a good decision. One of his better ones, honestly. 

With a grunt of effort, Jonathan lifted himself into a seated position and put on his hoodie properly, for what little extra warmth it could provide. As it turned out, cheap hoodies were not meant to be worn continuously for seven months, especially after the apocalypse. 

Slowly, Jonathan swung his legs over the edge of the mattress towards his shoes. After a minute of struggling with the laces, he finally got them on properly and stood up. His legs felt a little weak, and not just because of his knee or his ankle. He hadn’t been vertical for about fifteen hours--the candles were starting to burn down to nubs, flames put out by their own melting wax, and the result was earlier and earlier bedtimes. Jonathan wasn’t complaining. It was warm under the duvet, with an arm and sometimes a leg wrapped around Sock, and their breathing slowly evening out and harmonizing before they drifted out of consciousness. 

The door swung open noisily, and frigid air rushed into the room, sending Jonathan into a fit of shivers. With it, the wind brought a small drift of snow and a cold-looking Sock. Pushing the door shut behind him, Sock hurried over to the nightstand next to the bed and snatched up his coat. “W-well, I’m not hot anymore.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“But I still feel gross.” Sock grabbed his hat, but paused before putting it on. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at even more awkward angles than before. Pulling his hand back from his scalp, he examined it and grimaced. “Seriously, I feel like a dirtball. Don’t you?”

“I dunno.” Jonathan hobbled over to Sock’s side of the bed. He was getting a little better at walking around on his own. Stairs were still a problem, though, and the outside world was quickly growing more and more hazardous, what with the rising piles of snow and the ice that covered their established paths overnight. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it, kinda?”

“Well, so am I.” Sock wiped his hand on his pants. “But the last few days it’s gotten a lot worse, for some reason.” He plopped his hat onto his head, trying to smooth down his bangs without much success. “I think it’s because I’m sweating so much at night, maybe?”

“I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice with that one.” Jonathan half-sat on the bed, looking up at Sock. “What do you wanna do about it?”

Sock sighed and put his hands on his hips. When Jonathan reached out for the hand nearest to him, Sock willingly gave it up and twined his fingers between Jonathan’s. “I wanna take a bath, or something, to be honest.” Jonathan cocked an eyebrow, and Sock quickly added, “I know it’s kind of impossible, but hear me out, please?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Ok.”

“Maybe....maybe we can melt some snow, and I can at least wash my face, or something?”

“Do we have enough candles for that?”

“Shit, probably not.” Sock clasped Jonathan’s hand and bounced a few times, thinking. Finally, he muttered, “Unless we go out and get some.”

“What?”

“There’s that department store down the street, y’know.”

“Yeah, but that’s like, five blocks away,” Jonathan lifted his injured foot, “and I can barely make it around the building.”

“I know.” Sock screwed up his face in concentration. “Maybe I could push you there in that wheely office chair? Though we might get stuck on the drifts, nevermind….” He started mumbling ideas to himself, and Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“Or I could just stay here? I could get the snow together.”

“What?” Sock snapped his head up from his reverie. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can barely stand up--”

“I thought that was the reason I wasn’t going along?”

“--and what if some weirdo comes through the door waving a knife around? What’re you gonna do?”

“Uh, well, I’d probably welcome you back and ask how things went.”

It took a second for Sock to catch on, but when he did, he scowled and playfully smacked Jonathan’s arm. “Smartass.” 

“C’mon, you know it’s true.”

“Whatever.” Sock rolled his eyes and carefully plopped down next to Jonathan. “But seriously, I worry about you.”

“I know.” Jonathan rolled his ankle experimentally, wincing when he felt his bones creak. “But, y’know, I like eating, and being able to see after dark.”

Sock huffed out a small laugh, then fell silent for a few minutes, tapping his chapped lips in thought. Finally, he leaned into Jonathan’s side and peeked up at him through his bangs. “Will you make me a shopping list before I go?”

“Why do you need a list?”

“Mostly because I need to distract myself from missing you by trying to read your shitty handwriting.”

“Oh fuck you, my handwriting is fine.” Nevertheless, Jonathan slowly stood up, putting most of his weight onto his good leg. “Is there a notepad in the office?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Sock stood up, slipping easily under Jonathan’s arm and helping him out the door.

The short stretch of sidewalk between the bedroom and the office was usually mostly clear, save the occasional patch of stubborn ice. Sock made a point of kicking most of the snow out of the way in an attempt to prevent Jonathan from slipping and falling on his ass every time he so much as stepped outside. Thus far, according to Sock, Jonathan had fallen exactly three and a half times. The half happened when Sock had actually managed to catch Jonathan mid-fall, before losing his balance and landing on top of Jonathan in a snowy, cold, messy heap.

It had taken almost five minutes to get both of them back on their feet, and another good hour of cuddling before either of them were able to feel their noses again. 

Once in the office, Sock released Jonathan, who limped over to one of the chairs in the reception area. They would have been uncomfortable, even if they weren’t ass-numbingly cold, but getting behind the counter was a task that involved being able to jump over a large pile of moldy manila folders, something Jonathan had tried once and terrifically failed at. 

Sock, meanwhile, easily hopped across the mess on the floor, circling back around the desk. It seemed that, before the apocalypse, the motel had been making vague attempts at switching over to a computerized system, resulting in a mess that was equal parts electronic and paper-based. If not for unwanted visitors, the office might have been pristine when Sock and Jonathan had arrived. However, as it was, a family of raccoons, probably fleeing Ramot in the wild, had broken in and set up nest inside one of the filing cabinets.

So far as Sock could tell, they hadn’t died of Ramot, but starvation. There was absolutely nothing in their stomachs; nothing edible, anyway. Just a lot of paper pulp and chewed up plastic and a wire. He’d hidden their bodies away before Jonathan could see them, and, more importantly, before he could see the cuts where Sock had stuck his knife in to dissect them. 

The area behind the desk was a small treasure trove of mostly useless things. It was here that Sock had found the pack of cards that was currently saving the both of them from boredom, and it was also here that he’d seen several stacks of unused notepads, water stained and spotted with dead mold. But there was also an unopened package of ballpoint pens, which were in remarkably good condition, and he tossed it over the counter to Jonathan. 

Jonathan tore open the package while Sock searched for the least-damaged notepad. “Damn, why do they have to be red?”

“You got something against red, hot stuff?” Sock peeked over the counter to see Jonathan scribbling experimentally on the back of his hand. He cracked a small smile and ducked back down to sort through notepads.

“Not in general, no. Just in pens.”

“Why?”

“Bad memories, I guess.”

Finally deciding on one notepad that was mostly clean, Sock hopped back across the debris field to where Jonathan was sitting, pen at the ready. “Bad memories from what?”

“From school, mostly.”

Sock chuckled and sank down onto a chair next to Jonathan, watching him scribble in the corner of the paper to get the ink flowing. “Lot of red marks on your tests, or something?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Jonathan wrote ‘shopping list’ at the top of the page, then a line underneath. “I honestly don’t think I got anything higher than a ‘C’ on any of my math tests.”

“Really?” Sock tugged at one of the flaps of his hat and cocked an eyebrow. “That’s...I can see why you don’t like red pen.”

Jonathan finished writing ‘food’, ‘water’, and ‘soap?’, then looked up at Sock. “What, were you some kind of genius or something?”

Shrugging sheepishly, Sock said, “Well, not in as many words, but…”

“Oh, fuck you.” Jonathan poked Sock in the side with the end of the pen, making Sock giggle and squirm away. “What else?”

“About my grades, or about the list, _sweetie?_ ”

“The list, _darling_.”

“Candles.”

“Right.”

“And maybe some matches, we need those too.”

“Ok…”

“What about clothes? I could try and see if there are some good shirts or something.”

“Yeah, that’ll be nice.”

“What’s your size?”

“Anything but a small.”

“Oh, really?”

“Wha--oh, shut up!”

“I’m gonna find out someday, babe, better get used to it.” Sock winked, taking no small amount of pleasure in how pink Jonathan’s cheeks were getting. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across Jonathan’s face.

“Well, I wear a medium in most boxers, if you were wondering.”

This time Sock’s face heated up, but he smiled anyway. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh, you will?”

“Yep,” Sock leaned in close to Jonathan’s face, and the pen in Jonathan’s hand went lax. Lips barely skirting the edge of Jonathan’s mouth, Sock whispered between soft kisses, “I’ll think about it all the time, if you want.”

Sock felt a shudder in Jonathan’s breath, a hitch in his pulse, and then they were kissing properly, long and languid, the kind of kiss that made Sock go weak in the knees and grab for purchase on Jonathan’s hoodie.

They’d been sharing a lot of those, lately, sandwiched between layers of sheets and blankets and iced with sweat, and Sock was starting to memorize the feeling of Jonathan’s tongue tangling with his own. It was a sensation that melted his brain every single time.

Sharing a bed with Jonathan was proving to be, in a word, difficult. Because while it allowed them to cuddle and conserve body heat (often with kissing involved), it also meant being very close to Jonathan at all times. And lately, pecks had turned to kissing, which turned to making out, which had made for a very awkward situation when Jonathan brushed his hip against Sock’s groin and felt the erection through his pants.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was the first time Jonathan had noticed it. They didn’t talk about it, just flipped around so their backs were pressed together until Jonathan started spooning him sometime in the early morning. 

With silence came guilt, and soon Sock was becoming very aware of the little touches that turned him on--the nibbles on his neck, the caresses on his thighs, the kisses on his earlobes. He didn’t want Jonathan to stop--no, please, keep going--but the way Jonathan had reacted, just turning over like nothing had happened…

He felt dirty. 

Meanwhile, Jonathan had moved his mouth down to Sock’s neck, leaving wide kisses in his wake, and Sock was practically sitting on Jonathan’s lap and arching his back to get closer to that touch, urged on by one hand on his spine, and the other one soon to join--

**CLACK.**

Both boys jumped as the pen and notepad hit the floor, having been unknowingly released from Jonathan’s grip. For a few breathless seconds, they stared at the offending objects. Then Jonathan glanced over at Sock and Sock looked at Jonathan and they both burst out laughing.

“Jesus, that scared the shit outta me!”

“I know, hot stuff, I felt you jump.”

“Shut up, you did, too.”

“Maybe,” Sock extracted himself from Jonathan’s arms to pick up the pen and paper from the floor, “but you can’t prove anything.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and grabbed the notepad. Scanning over the list, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his heart rate. 

Maybe next time, they could try doing that on a horizontal surface, instead of a shitty motel waiting room chair. 

Sock sighed, a little sadly, maybe, and climbed down from his perch on Jonathan’s legs. Quietly, he tugged the hem of his coat down to cover the growing bulge in his jeans. “Is that everything?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Everything I can think of.”

“Okie dokie, then.” Sock held out his hand for the notepad, and received it with a small kiss on his palm. He couldn't help giggling a little. “Oh, you charmer.” He winked again, trying to cover his anxiousness with flirtation. 

As he took back his hand, he glanced over the completed list and backed up so Jonathan would have room to stand up. Suddenly, he snorted.

“God, your handwriting is awful.”

“If you can’t read it, then don’t take it.” Jonathan moved to snatch the notepad back, but Sock danced it out of his reach.

“No, I can read it!”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, like right here, it says--” Sock scrunched up his nose and squinted at the paper, mocking confusion, “...hatel.”

“Uh, wh--that says ‘water’, you dumbass.”

“No, that’s very clearly an ‘l’ at the end there.”

“It’s an ‘r’.”

“You sure?”

“Well, yeah, why else would I write it?”

“You tell me, Mr. Scared of Red Ink.” With that, Sock grinned and giggled, dodging out of the way of Jonathan’s incoming slap.

“Oh for--give me that!” Jonathan managed to catch hold of the notepad and yank it out of Sock’s grip, then quickly turned around, uncapped the pen, and started scribbling something in the corner.

“Hey! What’re you doing?”

Jonathan turned back around and shoved the notepad in Sock’s face. After taking it, Sock searched for changes and found one, near the bottom of the list. 

“Aww, it says ‘fuck off’! I love you too, Jonathan!”

“Shut up.” Jonathan took the paper again, scrawled something below his previous edit, and handed it back to Sock.

Sock giggled, then bounced up to place a kiss on Jonathan’s cheek. “I’m gonna get going, okay, hot stuff?”

“Fine, fine. Just help me back to the bedroom?”

\------

A block away from the motel, Sock was sinking knee-deep into the snow drifts, but his heart was still pounding and his head was still spinning. They’d been close, that time, and they hadn’t even been in bed. 

Sometime, somewhere, they were both going to toe the line a little too much, dance a little too close to the edge. The sensation of Jonathan leaving hickeys on his neck and collarbones, of him spreading his hands out over his chest, was like standing over a precipice, preparing to jump into the unknown. 

It hadn’t happened yet, but it felt inevitable.

He took the list out of his pocket, holding tight so it wouldn’t be swept away by the wind, and cracked a smile.

The heart in the corner was messy, worse than Jonathan’s handwriting, but it sparked something like certainty in his gut. 

He was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I will probably (read: definitely) be upping the rating next chapter. So yeah there's that.
> 
> ....
> 
>  
> 
> /eyebrows violently


End file.
